Somnambulism
by Sorrel
Summary: Doyle's back, but he's a little bit different, and it's gonna take some getting used to for Angel, having a ghost on the payroll... Angel-Doyle, Wes-Gunn. SLASH.
1. Where the Heart Is

**Chapter One: Where the Heart Is.** This starts somewhere soon after "Are You Now or Have You Ever Been" in Angel season 2. From that point on, it's AU.

* * *

****

Wesley looked around him at the piles of books and parchment strewn over the large, curving cushions of the couch in Angel's hotel. It had been a long night, and it was even now edging towards morning. And even after all the long, exhausting hours hunched over huge, dusty tomes and dustier scrolls, after agony of mind-bending headaches caused by tiny, cramped script in obscure languages, he still hadn't found the demon he was looking for. Cordelia had set him to searching for it, and he'd been looking all night, but… nothing. He'd halfway suspected when he started that she was making it up, but he'd gone along with it, and now he was almost certain that she had, indeed, created the demon off the top of her head, just to punish him. For not noticing her new _shoes,_ of all things. As if he'd ever noticed her new shoes. Why should she start getting upset about it now?

He buried his face in his hands and massaged his temples with strong fingers. God, his head hurt so much he thought he was going pass out. He hadn't hurt this much since… since he'd almost been blown to little pieces, actually. He was exhausted, sore, hungry, and his head hurt. He was miserable.

"I need a drink," he told his palms. His palms gave no answer, but a musical clink from the table in front of him echoed in his aching ears, and he looked up to see what had caused it.

A glass. Full of amber liquid that made his stomach warm and his head buzz pleasantly just thinking about its smooth slide down his throat. The question was, where on earth had it come from? He picked it up and stared at it meditatively, noting that it looked exactly like every other glass he'd ever drank of the stuff in his life, and even probing a little magically he couldn't find anything wrong with it. He was actually lifting it to his lips for a taste before he realized with a start that not all poisons were magical, and set it down again. Wolfram and Hart was still their enemy, perhaps even more so now.

"Well, if you're not going to drink it, d'you mind if I do? It's been a while since I've had a good stiff drink, you know."

Wes jumped and stared around almost frantically for the source of the voice, finally noticing a pair of pale green eyes floating in the air about three feet away from him. Nothing else, just the eyes, though not eyeballs, just as if… as if the rest of the body were hidden, or just not visible. But the voice had to be attached to those eyes- Wes was sure of it, somehow. They just fit together. What he wanted to know was what the voice and eyes were and what they wanted with him.

"Who or what are you?" he demanded, fighting to keep his voice steady and searching mentally for any way to get away from this thing. Which proved to be a difficult task because he had absolutely no idea of what the thing's capabilities were.

"Hey, I object to the 'what' part of that question," the voice sad indignantly. The green eyes sparked and narrowed into a glare. "I'm human, boyo. Can'tcha see me?"

"Not… exactly," Wes said in confusion. "Nothing except your eyes, at any rate. Who are you, then?"

Totally ignoring Wesley's question, the green eyes shifted downwards. "Well, damn. Guess I am a tad bit invisible, after all." The eyes closed, and a body shimmered into transparency, then back again into nothingness. Wes watched with fascination as the eyes opened again and glared downwards. "Well, damn it all to hell. This is harder than learning to control my Brachen face, and that was a trial, I have to tell you."

Wes started violently. "I'm sorry… I could have sworn you just said Brachen."

The eyes looked up at him in puzzlement. "Well, yeah, I did. Half-Brachen, half-human, always have been. Took a while for my demon side to show, though. Why?"

"Is… Um, are you by any chance Alan Francis Doyle?"

The eyes stared at him in utter shock. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "How in hell'd you know that, though?"

Wes suddenly grinned, a tired but radiant smile. "I'll explain, but it'd be nice if I could actually see you, you know, instead of just your eyes. It's a little odd, talking to a disembodied voice and pair of eyes."

"I can get that," Doyle says, and Wes can hear a grin in his voice. The eyes close, and he shimmers before vanishing again. His eyes snap open, and then his body winks into view, solid and amazingly real-looking. He smirks down at himself, but when his body starts to shimmer again he glares at it. It solidifies, and he stares at his feet for an unblinking minute before, assured that he's going to stay solid, sends a sheepish smile at Wes. "Sorry… it's a little tricky to get the hang of. Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Wesley Wyndam-Price," he began to explain, but Doyle interrupted, a dazzling smile on his face.

"I know you!" he said. "You're the guy the came in just a little bit after I'd left. Wonderful man with books, I've heard. Not really the best in a social situation, but definitely a good man to have around."

"That's… how did you know that?" Wes demanded. "How could you possibly know that?"

Doyle grinned cheekily. "Dreams, man," he said. "Even when I was in the halfway place, I could still see dreams. Picked up lots just scanning them, which was easier because it takes work to actually get into one, but I'm out of the halfway place now and it's actually pretty easy. Cordelia, for instance, is dreaming about shopping at the moment. Big surprise there." His face got a faraway look to it, and Wes stared at him in fascinated shock as he continued. "She's picking out this really hot red number, looking at the price tag… oh, and there we go. I just put my face where the price is supposed to be and waved at her… oh, lovely, she screamed." His eyes refocused, and he cursed. "Damn, she woke up. Didn't used to scare that easily, I swear."

"She doesn't scare particularly easy now," Wes said absently, and then abruptly refocused on the man in front of him. "Okay, so let's see if I have this all correct. You died. Obviously. You went to a… how did you put it? Halfway place? "In limbo' is the term I think I've heard before, but I didn't realize you had a consciousness in there, or any abilities. And you got sent back as a ghost? Why? Your purpose seems to be pretty much fulfilled, and if you'd had any unresolved issues you would have either worked them out while in limbo or come back earlier. And I've never heard of any ghost having abilities linked to dreams. It's entirely unprecedented. Furthermore, why did you show up here? Why now? What brought you back? And-"

Doyle held up a hand, laughing at the flood of Wes-babble. "One at a time, man. One at a time. Yeah, the halfway place is similar to being in limbo, but that's where you wait to be chosen by either heaven or hell. The halfway place is for those who have no place, period- it's where you go where they try to figure out where to put you. Normally no one has consciousness in either place, but I was a Messenger to one of the more powerful warriors of the Light and died for the cause- I was special. That accounts for the link to the Dreaming, by the way. I didn't get _sent_ back, precisely- I chose to return. No unresolved issues or anything- just wanted back. I'm not sure why I showed up here, because I don't even know where this place is, but as to why now and what brought me back- I got bored with the halfway place and wanted back in this realm, and asked the Powers that Be ever-so-politely if I might return. So here I am."

"This is Angel's hotel," Wes said. "Ours, technically, for our offices, but Angel actually lives here, so we all call it his hotel."

"That'd be why I was brought here, then," Doyle said on a sigh. "First person you think of when you're awake… you're dragged straight to them. Or to where they live, apparently, since I don't see him anywhere, and I can't feel him either."

"Feel?" Wes asked, bemused, but before Doyle could answer they both heard bickering voices outside the front door and getting closer- Cordelia working Angel over, as usual, and Angel trying in his half-hearted way to defend himself. Doyle quickly vanished out of sight, and then whispered in Wesley's ear as the two walked in.

"Don't let them know I'm back yet. There's mischief to be had yet, y'see, and it's been a while since I've been able to do any real mischief."

"I understand," Wes said, unfortunately just as Cordelia and Angel walked into earshot.

"Understand what? Wesley, who were you talking to?" Cordelia demanded, more than willing to take her irritation with Angel out on her co-worker. Wes just smiled blandly, a perfectly innocent look in his eyes.

"Oh, just to myself. I do that when I'm tired sometimes. I was up all night researching that demon. Cordelia, are you sure you described him right? I couldn't seem to find him anywhere…"

"Demon?" Angel demanded. "Did you see it in a vision?" Cordelia looked around, trying to come up with a plausible lie, and Wed grinned and sneaked out of the room while she tried to talk her way around it. Doyle, the whole mess that would come about by his return, and how to keep him a secret from his friends… that he would deal with later, when he'd had some sleep. For the moment, all he wanted to think about was his bed.

Chuckling to himself, he made his way out the door to his motorcycle, parked by the curb. It was untouched, even in this less-than-sterling section of town, thanks to a rather excellent anti-theft spell that delivered a nasty shock and an amusing little curse that covered the would-be thief's hands in boils for a few days. Just long enough for him to think twice about trying it again any time soon. Disabling the spell, he pulled on his helmet, swung one leg over the bike, and roared away.

****

* * *

Angel was dreaming; he knew he was. Doyle never came to him except in his dreams. But the dream was so real- Doyle was so real. He could actually feel him in his arms, taste him on his lips, and hear his panting breath. He knew that scent, the slightly spicy scent that no human carried but was all Doyle, and he knew those eyes- those pale green eyes, so clear and knowing. And loving. He could see the love in Doyle's eyes and he almost wanted to scream that it wasn't fair, that he could see and hear and smell and feel Doyle but he knew that he wasn't really here, that he was dead and never coming back, so instead he pulled the smaller man hard against him and crushed his mouth down onto Doyle's own.

The half-demon moaned, then gasped as Angel slid his mouth down across Doyle's jaw to his throat, then back up to his earlobe. Doyle wiggled happily on top of him, rubbing up against the vampire in a couple very interesting ways as he did so, and then took advantage of Angel's momentary distraction to slide down his body. His teeth and tongue teased on nipple while he stroked the broad pad of his thumb over the other, and then, sending a cheeky grin up at the entranced Angel, he slide further down, to his belly and beyond. His tongue flicked out, just barely touching the tip of Angel's cock, and then his head dipped to take him in-

He jerked awake, sitting straight up in bed and staring around wildly. Nothing, he couldn't see anything at all. Of course Doyle wasn't there- what the hell was he thinking?

Drenched in sweat and his erection aching, he leaned back into the comforting bolster of the pillows. He let his hand slide down his stomach to his cock, not wanting to be awake all night or worse, fall into another dream of Doyle. He thought his heart would break if he had another dream about the man he'd lost.

Invisible in the corner of the room, Doyle watched him with hungry eyes. Angel… Oh god, now that he was actually here… he hadn't thought his skin would burn this much just to be around him, not anymore, not considering that he was a ghost. But the skin he didn't have was humming, and the heart that didn't beat was thundering in his nonexistent chest.

He didn't have to be this close in order to enter his dreams- after months of practice, he could do it while carrying on a conversation with someone hundreds of miles away. But he found that once he'd seen the man, still dark and looming, broad shoulders still trying to carry the weight of the world even as his dark, agonized eyes flickered restlessly as he tried to find a way out of arguing with Cordelia… He couldn't do it. Couldn't stay away from this man for a second longer than he had to. He'd missed him so much… wanted him so much… that now that he'd finally found him again his nerve endings screamed with pain whenever he tried to leave his presence.

He watched as Angel finished jerking off and cleaned himself up, finally crawling back into bed and an exhausted sleep. Doyle waited to see if he'd enter the Dreaming again, but no- his mind was closed, merely sleeping rather than dreaming. Disappointed, Doyle settled for stretching out on his stomach in midair over the bed and watching Angel sleep. Another part of his mind was still in the Dreaming- part of his mind was always in the Dreaming- but he stayed out of Wesley's and Cordelia's dreams, merely scanning through them and sorting them into coherence before storing the important parts into another corner of his brain, keeping most of his thoughts reserved for the man sleeping beneath him.

Angel would say that he wasn't a man, Doyle mused to himself as he lovingly traced Angel's face with his gaze. He's say a demon, a monster perhaps, or just someone seeking redemption. But man or demon, Doyle loved him. This was what he'd really come back for. He could never touch him, not in the waking world, but just to be able to lie here and gaze at his face… it was worth everything he'd given up.

He'd lied to Wesley… he hadn't been in the halfway place. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he was in Heaven, but the place he'd gone… it was close enough to suit him. Just like this world, except better. He'd had the link with the Dreaming because he was a Messenger, even dead, and even though his visions had been passed to Cordelia he still had some form of them. But even with the Dreaming open to him… he'd always known that he'd request to return. The Heaven he was in was almost wonderful enough to never leave, except for one flaw. Angel wasn't there.

He'd never been able to resist him, Doyle thought. Not since the moment he'd seen him in the first, all consuming vision that seemed to last for hours, all of Angel's life in a long, fiery burst of pain. He'd wanted to get closer to Angel then, to get near him and crawl even further inside his head than the vision had taken him, to know the man inside and out. He just wanted him, period, the demon with the face of an angel who'd suffered so much because of the soul he valued so highly… always in torment, and doomed to lose every drop of caring, conscious, morality, and love if ever the torment ceased. Yeah, he loved every inch of him, and he'd literally given up Heaven just to be with him.

And somehow, he was sure that he'd never regret that decision, not for a moment. Just because he was Angel, and Doyle loved him. It was a simple as that.

He'd wanted to play mischief on his two old friends for weeks more before revealing himself, but looking down at Angel's sleeping face, he knew that he wouldn't be able to. He'd barely been able to last till Angel fell asleep this morning, and that was a period of only a few minutes. He knew that as soon as Angel was awake- probably only another hour, the hours his boy kept- he was going to show himself. He didn't know what was going to happen, and he half looked forward to it and half dreaded it.

Sighing, he let himself drift down onto the bed and stretched out along Angel's chest, just as if he were real and tangible instead of not really there. Angel muttered and shifted a little in his sleep, and to his surprise Doyle actually felt heat wherever his skin touched Angel's. This was… interesting. He couldn't touch anything, and yet he could feel the heat of Angel's body? Very strange. Especially considering that vampires didn't have body heat. Or at least, they didn't to a human's touch… who knows what they felt like to a ghost. There wasn't exactly a handbook he could refer to or anything.

But he was too tired to think about it too much, and so he just curled up, basking in Angel's heat, and shut his eyes on a yawn. He'd tell them in the morning… who knows where they would go from there. And as he slowly relaxed, one thought remained in his mind.

This was home.


	2. Narcolepsy

**Chapter Two: Narcolepsy.**

* * *

****

Angel woke slowly, as he usually did. Something felt funny; he noticed when he was awake enough. Something tingled and prickled all along the skin of his chest and belly and legs, a very strange but not really unpleasant sensation. Wondering how long he'd been asleep- couldn't have been more than two hours- he slowly pried his lids open, and when he did he noticed something that almost gave him a heart attack.

Doyle was stretched out over his chest, chin propped on his hands and staring down at him with a smile in his beautiful green eyes. He wasn't really there, though, Angel knew that much at once- instead of the heat and weight of his body, all Angel could feel was that odd tingling prickle wherever Doyle was touching him.

Shock wore off and he lurched to a sitting position, and then off the bed onto the cold hardwood floors. He immediately cursed and started hopping from foot to foot, swearing for the thousandth time that he was going to get some carpets installed… and then looked at Doyle, who was sitting cross-legged in midair an inch above the bed covers and staring at him with great interest. Angel was immediately aware of how very naked he was, and his cheeks flamed in a blush a second before he grabbed for a pair of boxers lying next to the bed.

"Nothing new there, boyo, and certainly nothing to be embarrassed about, that's for a surety… Why bother covering it up?" When Angel just shook his head mutely and stared at him, Doyle looked down at himself in bemusement. "What, you'd think a fellow was dead and back to haunt you, the way you're staring so."

"Very funny," Angel said, his voice dry and a little choked. "How… how are you back here?"

"Well, I had some unresolved issues over the state of my death…" Seeing the beginning of a tortured looking forming on Angel's face, Doyle sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm lying, ya nit. I just got bored without the whole fighting evil gig. I asked to come back."

Angel's eyes widened to comical proportions. "You asked to come back? Why? You finally got your freedom from this plane. Why would you want to return?"

"It has something I couldn't live without," Doyle replied obliquely, then sprang lightly onto the floor with a grace he hadn't had in life. "I'm heading down so I can scare the life out of the Princess. Might want to wait for Wes, though. He'll want to see the show."

"You know Wes?" Angel asked, but he was speaking to empty air. Doyle had grinned lopsidedly and then sunk straight through the floor. At Angel's words, however, just his head appeared, looking absurd sitting on the polished hardwood floor as it was.

"Met him early this morning. Charming fellow. Knows his books."

"Why don't you just use the stairs?" Angel demanded, a little unnerved by talking to Doyle's disembodied head.

"Easier this way," Doyle explains. "Faster, too. See you down there," he added, and disappeared through the floorboards again.

Angel stared at the spot where he had vanished, rubbing one hand over his chest and trying to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order. Doyle… Doyle was back. He tried to turn that one, simple fact around in his head, make it make sense in the version of reality that he knew. But it was like trying to jam a cube into a circular hole: it just wouldn't fit. He couldn't make it fit.

God, the man he'd loved… he was back. In this world once again. And he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with him.

His back stiffened. He could do this. He could handle it. He'd handled enough shocks in his extraordinarily long life; he should be able to handle this one too. He'd just… adjust. Somehow.

He looked at the door, and then down at himself. He should probably put some clothes on first, right?

****

* * *

Cordelia walked into the lobby of Angel's hotel, muttering to herself about underappreciated employees who were sent on errands to get really disgusting ingredients from magic shops, and saw Doyle sprawled out on the couch. She stopped, and stared, and he waved a little, cheerily. "Been a while, Princess," he said, and with a smothered shriek she stalked across the tiled floor and slapped him as hard as she could.

Or tried to, rather. Her hand passed through his face like it was empty air, without so much as a chill or a tingle to show that she'd just passed through Doyle's very solid-seeming body. Seeming being the operative word. He grinned at her, stood up, and stretched until his body was drawn into a long, lean line before relaxing back into a more normal pose.

"You seem to have developed a habit of doing that, Princess," he told her, pale green eyes twinkling cheerfully. "Not more'n a few minutes before I kicked away the mortal coil, and now this. I have to say, I'm wounded. Seems you didn't miss me as you ought. Hurts less now, though."

"Because you're _dead,_" Cordelia snapped. "Why're you back?"

"So friendly, so welcoming, so…" His hands sketched helpless curves in the air as he searched for the word. "So not."

"Funny," she said flatly. "You're just the funniest dead guy I've ever met. Of course, my standard for comparison is a big, broody vampire with disturbing fashion sense and no sense of humor, so that's not saying much."

"I heard that," Angel said from the steps, and Cordelia briefly focused her ire on him. "You _always_ hear it," she snaps, just as Doyle whips around and grins at the vampire, speaking loudly enough that he overrides her less-than-delicate voice.

"Angel man, come join our touching reunion. Cordy here seems to be less than grateful that she's seeing me handsome face again."

"I'm sure she's just in shock," Angel said dryly. "Your return is a little surprising, you know. Be grateful," he told Cordelia, "that he merely waited for you on the couch. I woke up this morning to find him lying on top of me."

"You didn't," she told Doyle disbelievingly, but then she shook her head. "Of course you did. Who did I think I was talking to anyway?"

Doyle shrugged, a pleased little smile dancing across his lips. "All that muscle makes for a very nice pillow where I can lay to rest my ghostly head. And he's warm."

"Of course he's not warm," Cordelia snapped. "He's dead. He has no body heat."

"He does to a ghost," Doyle pointed out with irrefutable logic. Irrefutable because Cordelia didn't know enough about ghosts to argue, so she just scowled and moved on to her next bone of contention.

"You kissed me," she snarled, and Doyle clapped a dramatic hand over his chest and fixed a hurt expression on his face.

"My heart, my heart. You wound me, Princess. As kisses go, that one was off the scale."

"The visions that you passed on to me are pretty off the scale, yeah. If your scale measures _pain!_"

Angel had been watching their little spat with no small amount of interest, and upon her last sally he saw genuine regret cross Doyle's face for a moment before it vanished. It lurked in his eyes, though, as he said, "I didn't know it was going to happen, Cordy. I swear to you that I didn't. I can't say that I would have done things differently if I'd known, but I didn't. I wouldn't have willingly inflicted a burden like that upon you."

Her expression softened, and she said reluctantly, "I know. You're taking them back now, though, right?"

He sighed and shook his head at her hopeful expression. "Sorry, Cordy. I can't. I'm not alive, darlin'- I can't carry the visions without life. No one can."

She glared at him briefly before giving up and flopping onto the couch beside him. "It was worth a try, I guess."

"It usually is," he agreed, then looked up at Angel. "Any reason you're still standin', chief?"

Before Angel could come up with an appropriately snarly answer, Wesley strode into the room. He stopped and smiled at Doyle, then frowned at Angel and Cordelia. "I could have sworn you said you were going to play with them for a while first," he said mildly. When Doyle said nothing, Wesley just sighed. "You could have at least waited for me, so that I could see the show."

"I'm an impatient fellow," Doyle said with a shrug, and Angel glanced back and forth between them with confusion written all over his face.

"You two know each other?"

"I told you we did," Doyle said, just as Wesley affirmed, "Last night. Technically, this morning." Doyle shot a grin at him, one that contained the sort of easy mischief that it was difficult to resist. Wesley suddenly realized exactly why Angel and Cordelia had missed him so much while he was gone, and why he had felt that he needed to work so hard to fill the man's spot without ever succeeding. It was clear that no one could ever fill this man's shoes, especially not him, but he'd made his own place nonetheless. And now that Doyle was back, Wesley suddenly thought that maybe he wouldn't be discarded. Maybe they could work together. Maybe they could be friends.

"Speaking of last night," Doyle said to Cordelia, breaking through Wesley's musings, "the imaginary demon trick was a nice one. Well, not nice for Wes here, but right vicious, none th'less. I'm proud of you."

"What did you do?" Angel asked Cordelia with ominous curiosity, and her gaze shifted frantically back and forth as she tried to figure out a way out if the situation. Wes took pity on her- Doyle decided that he'd have to train the man out of that- and held up a hand in a pacifying gesture to Angel.

"She didn't do anything," he said, and Cordelia shot him a grateful look. "Doyle just making trouble."

"I am not!" Doyle protested, right on cue, with an appropriately childish tone. Angel shifted his dark gaze to the ghost and lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. Wes and Doyle exchanged a glance of shared triumph before Doyle starting talking, spilling his perfectly Irish bullshit with a speed that would have been astonishing on anyone else.

And of course, Angel fell for it hook, line, and sinker, "just like the big, brooding sucker he is," as Cordelia remarked in an undertone to Wesley as she watched in disgust. Wesley wasn't paying attention, because Gunn had just walked in, and the skittering heat that always tickled down his spine whenever the other man was around had already started doing a tap-dance at the small of his back. He nodded a friendly greeting to Gunn and then turned his focus back to Doyle and Angel, who was well on his way to being wrapped around the Irishman's slender fingers.

If he wasn't already there.

Wes decided that he would save that thought for another time. The way that Angel looked at Doyle whenever he thought the ghost couldn't see him was painfully obvious, especially to someone who had experience at pining for someone you couldn't touch. Of course, Wesley had never pined for someone he couldn't _literally_ touch, so he imagined it had to be worse for Angel. But again, he'd think about it later.

"Who's the little guy?" Gunn asked softly from directly behind Wes, who managed not to jump, despite the fact that the hairs on his neck had all stood straight up when he'd felt the whisper of Gun's breath on his skin.

"That's Doyle," he explained, keeping his voice equally low.

"Hey, wasn't he the dude that…"

"Died?" Cordelia finished acerbically. "Yeah, that's our boy. He's a ghost now, and somehow even more annoying than ever."

"Looks pretty solid for a ghost," Gunn observed.

"Try hitting him," Cordelia suggested. "He's a lot less solid than he looks."

"I'll take your word for it," Gunn said amiably, and turned his attention back to the pair on the couch.

Angel was actually starting to look dizzy, Wesley noticed with some interest, and so with a shrug he picked up a pillow from his end of the couch and threw it through Doyle's head.

"Hey!" the ghost complained. "That actually tickles, you know."

"Put that silver tongue of yours to better use and explain to three of us in this room that are not me what you told me last night. Er, this morning."

Doyle sighed, and made a face at having his game interrupted, but immediately launched into the tale of his death and what happened after. Angel held up a hand to stop the flow of words when Doyle got to the part about the dreams, and he said, "You were actually _in_ all of our dreams? As in, you could see them?"

"And participate, if I wanted a bit o' fun," Doyle added. "At first it was just to soothe Cordy's nightmares, and yours, but later I just messed around."

Wes, Gunn, and Cordelia all watched with fascination as Angel blushed. They'd never seen him blush before- didn't even know he _could_ blush- and they all started to wonder just what Doyle was doing in his dreams that was making him blush quite that shade of red. Gunn and Cordelia still looked clueless, but Wesley, knowing exactly what Angel was blushing about, sent a scorching glare towards Doyle and did his best to slam the door shut on the images parading through his mind.

"Wait," Cordelia said suddenly. "You could get into dreams?"

"That's what I said, princess."

"Can you still?"

"Sure," Doyle said with some surprise. "Easier here, if anything. Better range."

"Did you, perhaps, sneak into my dream while I was taking a nap in Angel's car this morning on the way here?"

He offered a sheepish grin. "Maybe?" She threw another pillow through his head, prompting another yelp of "Tickles, dammit!"

"Just finish your story," she said, and he gave an abused sigh before rolling his eyes and getting back to the tale.

****

* * *

Later that day Angel sat on the couch and watched Doyle. The smaller man- ghost- was behind the counter with Cordelia, winking in and out of visibility and stealing her pens every time she looked around in an effort to spot him. Her threats were starting to become creative enough to make even Angel wince. But he could see the twinkle of humor his here eyes and knew that she was just glad to have Doyle back.

Doyle was… different. Angel couldn't entirely put his finger on the change, but he could see it in the mischief, the bantering. There'd always been some of that in him, sure, but he'd rarely tweaked everyone's tails so fearlessly, just to get everyone stirred up so he could have a good laugh about it. A bit like Spike, Angel thought, only much less vicious and wasn't _that_ a comparison he would rather have never made.

The truth was, the Doyle he'd known had always been too hesitant. Oh sure, he's blustered and made jokes and talked his ways out of things with his skilled Irish tongue (oh god images) but the truth was, some part of Doyle has always been afraid of something. Of himself. That was gone now, and all that was left was a man-ghost-whatever that was relentlessly full of himself and ready to play.

He wondered when, exactly, the change had taken place. He had a few suspicions- he's seen the slightly wistful smile on Doyle's face when he spoke of the "halfway place," and he suspected that the ghost was really lying. He'd been in Heaven. Angel was almost sure of it. He'd obviously found some sort of peace, even with himself. And yet he'd come back. For what?

* * *

He stewed over it the whole evening, through a mundane-patrol-and-kill through a couple of vamp bars, through the short drive home and the much longer shower afterwards. But by the time he crawled into bed a short while after midnight, he was no closer to an answer.

Doyle said he'd come back for something. But what was so precious that he'd give up Heaven to have it by his side?

****

Soft mouth with a sharp hint of teeth and _evil_ tongue, drifting over his chest while lean poet's hands, strong and callused despite their apparent frailty, explored busily. One moved southward, causing his eyes to roll into the back of his head and-

He was awake, panting for the air he didn't need and staring with wide eyes into Doyle's own. The ghost was lying on top of him again, and that heated tingle-prickle spark that felt almost like electricity was buzzing over his entire body. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, wanting that tingle to be rubbing over his cock where it would do the most good, but he kept his hips still against the bed.

Doyle seemed to read his mind, though, because he scooted a few inches lower and started rubbing his hips over Angel's in sinuous circles. A groan welled up in the vampire's chest and rumbled in the back of his throat, and his hips snapped off the bed as his head arched back blindly. The sight of Doyle's lust-filled eyes combined with the tingle-prickle over his cock was enough to make him start coming.

Doyle made little soothing rumbling noises in his throat and waited for Angel's eyes to unglaze and focus on his own. When they did he gave a little encouraging smile, and said, "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

Angel snorted a tired laugh and let his head flop back onto the pillows. "Cute." He was silent for a minuet, just looking at Doyle's face pillowed on the curve of his biceps, and then said hesitantly, almost in a whisper, "Doyle, what's going on here? Not just what you told us downstairs this morning, but… this." One hand waved, indicating the bed and its two occupants. "Us."

Doyle didn't answer for a minute, just stared off into space with this quiet look on his face that was causing little jagged pains to ripple over Angel's unbeating heart. "Do you know," Doyle mused, still with that faraway look on his face, "that I was dead about nine months? The first week," he continued, not giving Angel a chance to answer, "I just sorta… wandered around. It was green, and vivid and alive and beautiful, and a few days after arriving I found a pub and went in, sat down. It was… bliss. Amazing. For the first week I was in a daze of happiness.

"The second week I finally learned I was in Heaven, or at least the closest thing to it. S'not the place where the heroes go when they die, not the Elysian fields of eternal bliss, but it was pretty perfect by my standards. The third week I discovered I could see into dreams of anyone I focused on. You and Cordy had the most appalling nightmares… I would say you wouldn't believe them, except I'm sure you remember them well enough, having dreamed them yourself.

"The fourth week I realized I could step into the dreams, start playing with the outcomes. I did my damnedest to stop the nightmares for you two. Cordy because she was my friend, and you because… I'll get to that later.

"Wes came into your lives, and I started watching his dreams too, because he was close to you and even from afar, I was protective. He's such a confused young man… far less than when you found him, Angel, but his nightmares break my heart.

"Right around then you started to dream of me… differently. I'd finally cleared the last of the nightmares away, I think, and when they were gone your dreams of me reverted to what I can only assume was your usual style. I… was stunned. I mean, here was this tall, gorgeous guy with the whole Dark Avenger thing going for him, and I'd certainly been lusting after him for weeks before my death, and I looked in one night and there I was, naked on your bed with your lips wrapped around my cock. You can believe me when I say I jumped into the dream just as fast as you please that night, and every night after.

"But it wasn't just the sex, Angel. Sometimes you didn't wake up before you came, and if you came in your sleep, you always curled around me in your dreams just as I know you would have in real life. And you always told me you loved me. Every single time.

"I'm not going to allow you to pretend it didn't happen, or that it wasn't the truth," Doyle told him, regarding him with steady eyes. "Because I _know_ the truth. I was there. You're not allowed to say that you don't love me, because… because I love you."

Angel stared at him for a long, heartbreaking moment before trying to wrap Doyle in his arms. They just sank through his skin with a slow-burning tingle, and Doyle looked at him with sad eyes. "We can't touch, Angel. Not while you're awake. We can't ever truly touch. Not unless you're dreaming. Do you understand that?" When Angel just nodded mutely, Doyle traced one finger in the air a breath above his lips. "Can you accept it?"

"I can," Angel said hoarsely, speaking for the first time in a long time. "I can accept anything if it means I'm with you."

Doyle smiled gently and rubbed his cheek against Angel's, leaving little sparks in his wake. "Then go to sleep. I'll be there when you arrive in the Dreaming, Angel," he said when the vampire made a complaining noise at the back of his throat. "I'll be waiting."

"Alright," Angel whispered, and then he closed his eyes. With the ease of long, forced practice, he slid smoothly into sleep, and when he stepped through the gateway of the Dreaming Doyle was waiting for him, a smile on his face and love in his eyes. Angel reached out and took his hand, and Doyle laced their fingers together before standing on tiptoe and molding his lips to Angel's.

And it was perfect.

****

* * *

Lindsey watched as Darla paced restlessly back and forth across his office, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with silent footsteps. Finally, tired of the waiting silence, he asked softly, "Darla, what went wrong? What happened?"

"I couldn't get in," she said, just as softly. "I couldn't get in."

"What do you mean?"

"Angel," she said listlessly, and suddenly dropped into a chair on the other side of the room. "I couldn't get into his dreams."

Lindsey sat very still for a moment, his agile mind racing. "Maybe there's some element of the magic that's not right," he suggested. "Maybe-"

"I know what's wrong," she told him. "There was already something there. There's already something living in his dreams."

"What?" he demanded quietly. "What's in his dreams?"

"I don't know," she said, and one tear seemed to trickle down her cheek, or was it just a trick of the light? "I don't know."

"You have no idea?" he said. "The more we know about this, the sooner we can take care of it."

"There is one thing," she said, and ducked her head. He could see her eyes, predator's eyes gleaming at him through the fall of blonde hair.

"What is it?"

"His head's all dead inside," she whispered.

****

* * *

The next couple weeks slowly developed into a pattern. Angel would wake up sometime around noon and join Cordelia in the lobby. Usually Wes was around too, reading- he'd decided that he wanted to go through Angel's private library, or what was left of it after the explosion. He said that he wanted to know where everything was so he could find things in a hurry, but Angel held a sneaking suspicion that he just wanted to find something useful to do.

Sometimes Gunn would show up, usually as the sun was starting to set, to see if there was anything interesting for him to kill. If nothing else had come up, Angel would head out to hit a couple of the vamp bars, and Gunn usually tagged along out of boredom. Doyle would go along, or not, depending on the mood in the office that evening- if Cordelia or Wes were in a bad mood, he's stay behind to tease circles around them until they were so mad at him they couldn't remember why they were upset before. If everything was roses and sunshine he'd follow after Angel, but usually just to watch. He'd discovered that he had some ability to move things around, like strangling someone or stabbing them, but he couldn't pick up anything heavy. Angel now kept a few spare daggers and stakes and a coil of reinforced titanium wire with him whenever he went out, just in case Doyle decided to tag along and felt like helping.

When they got back from whatever slaying needed to be done, Cordelia was usually long gone and Wes was usually curled up on the couch, still reading. Angel always went upstairs to take a shower, and Doyle hung around to talk to Wes until Angel was ready for bed. Then he'd zoom upstairs and curl up on top of Angel while the vampire went to sleep, and they'd stay locked in dreams the rest of the night and through the morning, when Angel would get up at noon and the pattern would repeat again.

There were breaks in the pattern, of course. Sometimes Cordelia would get a vision and they would all drop everything to battle evil and help the hopeless. Sometime Doyle would see something in someone's dreams and they do the same. Doyle, everyone soon found out, had almost a split brain when it came to the Dreaming. Half of him was always there, always scanning dreams from all of LA and farther, sorting them into logical sequences and storing information. And he did this at the same time that he did everything else, somehow keeping a simultaneous awareness of the real world and the world of the dreaming. He'd be teasing Cordelia, maybe tickling the back of Wesley's neck with a feather, and all of a sudden he'd stop everything and run off to grab Angel, saying only that there was trouble. Cordelia may have gotten the visions, but Doyle was still every bit a Messenger, no matter how dead he may have been.

And then there was the ever-present tension between Wesley and Gunn. Even though Doyle seemed to be the only one to pick up on it, sexual tension practically oozed between them every time they were in a room together. They were also constantly bickering over something or other, but Doyle figured that it was just another symptom of attraction.

After that first early morning talk with Wesley when he'd first reentered the mortal place, he'd been drawn to the man. He was such a welter of ambition and fear with an overwhelming desire to belong. He reminded Doyle of himself, in that at least. Doyle knew that he'd never been quite that uptight and British and booksmart, but a lot of the essential bits, the driving forces behind their wildly different personalities… oh yeah, underneath it all they were mostly the same. He'd found that as much as he enjoyed teasing the Princess and just lying on his stomach, invisible, in the air above Angel's desk just to watch him, during the day the time he enjoyed most was when he just sat with the Englishman, talking about whatever came to mind. Or when Angel was up in the shower, cleaning all the dust and/or demon gore off his body, when he would stretch out on the couch and talk to Wes about the important things in life, things he didn't even really discuss with Angel all that much. Angel was a wonderful person, loving and devoted, but he had a lot that he already brooded about. He didn't need to hear Doyle's agonies, and Wes did. Wes needed someone he could be close to with nothing between them but friendship, and it turned out that Doyle needed exactly the same thing.

They talked about their pasts, their dreams and worries and desires. Doyle told him about Harry and discovering his demon half. Wesley told him about his father. Doyle told him about their separation, quitting his job, getting lost in the bottle. Wes told him about becoming a Watcher and hating it, but still giving it his all and thinking he excelled at it until he came to Sunnydale. Doyle told him about the bone-crushing visions he was "gifted" with, the agony of seeing and feeling so much of everyone's pain. Wesley told him about his supreme failure as a Watcher, being fired, and making his way to LA as a "rogue demon hunter" and how laughable he was even at that. Doyle told him about meeting Angel and then Cordelia, finally facing up to his fear of himself, and his death. Wes told him about how he'd finally found his place there, at Angel Investigations.

They talked about Gunn.

Wes had it bad, Doyle knew. It wasn't just lust on his side of the table. Doyle hesitated to say that he was in love with Gunn, but it was close, whatever it was. And even though Gunn had a major case of the hots for the slender, quiet Englishman, Doyle couldn't tell if there was anything else there. His dreams were erotic, sure, but there didn't seem to be anything else there. He didn't mention that to Wes, though, when they were having their late-night talks, and Wes didn't ask. Maybe he didn't want to know. In any case, Doyle wasn't planning on telling him anything to discourage him even further if he could possibly help it.

Doyle was a calming influence on them all, that was certain. The ghost gave the office a sense of balance that four colliding personalities hadn't had before. When he was there Angel didn't brood as much, Cordelia wasn't as bitchy as usual, and Wes and Gunn didn't fight as much. Unfortunately, he wasn't always there. Sometimes he went off somewhere entirely his own, and wouldn't tell them where he'd gone off to. Those were the days where the primary peacemaker in the office was Cordelia, since Angel wasn't much use, and Cordelia wasn't very good at running interference between Wes and Gunn. They were bickering more than ever, and she was starting to go crazy listening to it constantly.

Doyle's disappearances were getting longer and longer, Cordelia noticed. He would go to that place that he wouldn't tell them about, and he'd be gone for hours when before he wasn't gone more than half an hour at a time. She was probably the only one who did notice, except for Angel, who would follow Doyle's every moment when he was actually in the office and visible. Doyle spent a lot of time invisible, just so that the vampire could actually get some work done.

So maybe Angel didn't really notice the full extent of how much more his lover was gone. Maybe Cordelia didn't see all of it either, but she still noticed that he was leaving more and more, and she wanted to know where he was going. And why, definitely why.

But she didn't have too much free time to worry about it, because the office was falling apart around her. Doyle helped, sure, but he couldn't work miracles, and it became increasingly clear that he had something on his mind to deal with. Finally, after one particularly nasty shouting match, Gunn started coming around less and less and Wesley just buried himself deeper into books, trying not to let it show that he was hurt. And Angel… Cordelia didn't know about Angel. Recently, he'd seemed both there and not-there. Not brooding, exactly, but… thoughtful. She wanted to know why, but wasn't quite brave enough to ask him directly. Normally yes, but he seemed sort of… fragile. Which was a weird description of Angel, she told herself, but it was the one that stayed in her head nonetheless. She wanted to know what was going on with everyone, but no one seemed willing to tell her.

She'd find out eventually, she knew. It was just hard to wait. But she'd waited before, and she could do it again. All it took was a little patience. Admittedly, she didn't have a lot of patience, but she could do it.

It would be worth it to get some peace around the office again. It was starting to disturb her sleep, and she was getting little smudges under her eyes that were becoming increasingly hard to cover up with makeup.

And that was just simply not acceptable.


	3. Things Fall Apart

**Chapter Three: Things Fall Apart.** And now I commence twisting the plot until it bleeds.

****

* * *

A tired but happy smile creased Angel's face, mirrored on Doyle's as his lover collapsed, panting, on the covers next to him. "We're gonna kill ourselves with this one day. Oh wait, we're already dead. Nevermind."

Laughing, Angel summoned up the energy to smack him on the back of his head. "Wiseass." Doyle lifted his head and grinned at him, and his laughter faded as he stared into his eyes. "C'mere," he whispered, and tugged on Doyle's arm until the half-demon rolled on top of him, stretched out across his stomach with his chin resting on his hands and his elbows propped on Angel's sternum. Angel stretched lazily, then folded his hands behind his head and just looked up at his lover.

"I love you," he said, and part of his heart just sang at the brilliant smile Doyle gave him. He'd never been able to say the words before, not with that casual expression of caring, not even with Buffy. With Buffy it was fight and slay and angst and when the moment needed it desperately, he could drag the words from the depths of his tortured heart. With Doyle, it was… easy. It was right.

"I love you too," Doyle said softly, and then leaned down to ease his mouth over Angel's. They stayed like that for a long, timeless moment, just one long melding of their lips and hearts. Then Angel heard the distant shrilling of the alarm just before Doyle jerked back and looked down at him with a sad smile. "That's your cue to wake up, Angel." When a protest rose at the back of Angel's throat, Doyle pressed one long finger over his lips to silence him and then kissed him quickly. "Wake up, love."

Desperately, Angel wrapped his arms around Doyle and drew him close, trying to keep the alarm- and the rest of the real world- at bay. "Don't want to wake up," he murmured into Doyle's throat, "Don't want to ever wake up."

But then Doyle simply melted away, leaving his arms empty and a broken look in his eyes before they snapped open to see Doyle's pale green ones staring down into his own. Awake. He was awake. God, he wished that he didn't have to ever wake up, not if the waking world was the one where he couldn't touch his lover. He couldn't touch him, could only watch him for as long as Doyle let himself remain visible. He could look but not touch, and it was killing him.

"Are you alright?" Doyle asked him, worry in his voice and eyes, and Angel made an effort to pull it together.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just not really ready to wake up yet. Long night last night."

"Tell me about it," Doyle said with a smirk, and Angel had to laugh before shaking his head and swatting an extra pillow through Doyle's chest. "Tickles, dammit!" the ghost complained, as usual, and Angel chuckled.

"Was talking about the demons last night, actually, as you well know. I'm still not sure my hand has regained feeling yet." He splayed his fingers as wide as they could go, and then curled his hand into a tight fist. "Yeah, feeling back again," he said. Doyle laughed, and Angel poked one finger at him. "Move your ass, ghost boy. I need a shower."

Doyle snorted rudely. "I will never understand your obsession with showers," he said. "You take at least three a day, sometime more. It's just not normal." But he shifted to the side and then floated up to attach himself to the ceiling so he could watch as Angel stumbled into the bathroom. Fading out of visibility, he slid though the wall and watched with interest as Angel climbed into the shower and cranked the water over to broiling hot. Satisfied that his lover would soon be awake enough to function decently, he sunk down through the floor and landed neatly on his feet on the lobby floor, turning himself visible as he did so.

"Morning Doyle," Wesley said, not even blinking at the maneuver. But then, he and Cordy had had weeks to get used to it. Gunn still jumped sometimes, but then Gunn wasn't around as much.

"I'm out for a while," he told the two of them. "I should be back in a couple hours. Anyone want anything for lunch?"

"Turkey," Cordelia said, just as Wes said, "Ham." Doyle waved a friendly hand to show that he'd heard, already on his way out the door.

"Angel's gonna be pissed when he comes down and you're already gone," Cordelia told him. He shrugged.

"Not gonna be gone too long," he said. "I'll make it up to him tonight."

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," Cordelia chanted, covering her ears with her hands. Doyle laughed and sauntered through the door, losing visibility as he did so.

"I wonder where it is he goes," Cordelia mused. Wes looked up from the book he was reading.

"Doyle?"

"Yeah," she said. "He keeps leaving. I wonder where he goes when he does."

"Caritas," Wes said. She shot him a surprised glance. "What? He told me a few nights ago. He likes to sing, and it's also a good place to mingle. He's old friends with Lorne, too."

"Well well well," Cordelia said. "You learn something new every day. Doyle likes to sing?"

"Gorgeous tenor," Wes said. "Make him sing when he comes back. It's worth listening to, believe me."

"Huh," she said. "Never would have thought it. I mean, Doyle? Not exactly someone I pictured being able to sing anything besides drinking songs."

They fell into their usual companionable silence for a few minutes until Angel made his way down the steps, looking marginally more awake than he had when Doyle had left him. "Where's Doyle?" was the first thing out of his mouth, and Cordelia and Wes exchanged speaking glances.

"He already left," Wes said. "He said he'd be back in a couple hours."

"Oh," Angel said, in a small voice, and his shoulders slumped. Sighing, he went into his office and shut the door, but Wes and Cordy could see him settling into the familiar "brood" position. Both of them sighed simultaneously, and after exchanging another look, Wes went back behind the counter for a whispered conference.

"He's going back to the way he was before Doyle showed up," Cordelia hissed. "Except he's worse. Every time he finds out that Doyle's left for a while, he goes in there and broods, which is quite a lot since Doyle's been gone more and more recently."

"It's not Doyle's fault," Wes said quietly. "There's something wrong between them, though I'm not entirely sure what it is. Doyle won't tell me, but I think it has something to do with Doyle's state."

"What do you mean- oh," she said, getting it. "Ghost, can't touch. Bet it's driving Angel crazy."

"Doyle's not too happy about it either," Wes said. "That's why he's always leaving. When they're together during the day with no evil fighting to distract them, it hurts them both to not be able to touch. And it hurts a lot."

"Neither of them is really happy anymore, Wes," she said quietly. "What are we supposed to do?"

"What _can_ we do?" he asked helplessly. "They're never going to be happy as long as they can't touch, and I can't just magically make Doyle tangible, so there's nothing…" His voice trailed off and the two of them stared at each other, a sudden idea sparking in both their eyes.

"Did you just get the same Eureka that I did?" Cordelia asked.

"If your Eureka was about finding some sort of spell to turn Doyle tangible, then yes, I did. I'm not sure it's ever been done before, but I could check a few sources for ideas… the scrolls of Elysium, or Borkkog texts, or…" He trailed off into silence, his lips moving as he mentally tallied various difference sources, and then he scrabbled for pencil and paper. Cordelia, anticipating him, silently handed them to him and watched him with interest as he scribbled several titles in a barely legible handwriting, then handed the list to her.

"Check for those in Angel's personal library," he said. "I'm fairly sure that those will be there. And I'm going to go call around to look for the rest."

"Why are you calling? Why aren't I manning the phones and you going through the dusty books? Because I'm usually phone-girl."

"I can pronounce the titles. You can't. But hopefully, you can look at the covers and the list in your hand and be able to see the similarities between them."

"Oh," she said, and then ignored the insult- true though it was- and moved on. "You want me to tag Gunn on this too?" she asked. "He's pretty good at tracking things down."

"You can if you want to," Wes said with a fair attempt at indifference. Something else lurked in his eyes, though. "I'm going to go start calling now."

She sighed- the two of them were the most stubborn males she'd ever met, and she'd known quite a few- and went into the back room to start going through books.

****

* * *

Doyle walked through the door, then called out, "Wes, Princess, lunch is sitting on the doorstep. Kinda warm out there, might want to hurry up or it's gonna start cooking."

He got no response, so he went in search of the two of them. He didn't feel like going to the trouble of opening and shutting the door, because it took a lot of energy that he didn't have at the moment. The two of them would have to get their own lunches, but he wasn't kidding when he said that they were going to start cooking. Not that he could actually feel the heat, but he'd taken a look at a thermometer a while ago and it was pretty up there. Not to mention the humidity.

He found Cordelia in the room that Angel had designated for his library, thumbing through a small book and squinting to read the cramped handwriting. He stood there, silent and invisible, for a few minutes, just watching her read. Then he moved closer and peered over her shoulder, trying to figure out what she was reading.

It was the diary of a Valkesh demon who'd turned away from his heritage of maiming and killing and became a scientist. Thinking hard about what he'd learned about that particular Valkesh, he felt a chill rush down his back.

The Valkesh had researched ghosts. Looking almost frantically through the titles of all the other books stacked on the table in front of her, he found that every single one of them was related to ghosts in some way. So the Princess was reading up on him. The question that needed to be answered, at least by him, was why.

Not wanting to let her know that he'd seen what she was up to, he sneaked back to the doorway and made himself visible before calling out her name. Her head jerked up and she slammed the book shut, a blush forming on her cheeks, before she snapped, "What?"

"Lunch," he said mildly. "It's sitting outside. Come get it."

"Why's it sitting outside?" she demanded. "Don't you know it's in the upper nineties out there? Not to mention the humidity."

"Too tired to open the door," he explained. "I've been all over the freaking city in the last couple hours, Princess, and I don't have much left in me, okay?"

She drew back a little- the Doyle she'd gotten to know didn't snap. Hell, as far as she knew he didn't even have a temper at all. But she was seeing a little of it now, and it worried her. It worried her a lot, because it spoke all too eloquently of how bad things between him and Angel had gotten.

"Sorry," he said softly, seeing the look on her face. "As I said, I'm tired. It leaves me short of temper. I'm gonna go talk to Angel for a minute and then drop into the Dreaming. I'll be okay in an hour or so."

"Alright," she said, equally softly. She knew that slipping completely into the Dreaming, for him, was equivalent to sleeping for days. It was rare that he needed that kind of boost, and it really worried her that he needed it now.

"I'll just… go, then," he said hesitantly, and ghosted across the floor to Angel's office. The door was shut, but he just slipped through the wood and into the dark interior of his lover's room.

"Angel," he said quietly. "I'm back."

"I'm glad," Angel whispered. He pulled his feet off his desk and planted them on the floor, spinning around until he was facing Doyle. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back."

"I told Cordy and Wes I'd be back in a couple hours," he said, but then he saw the look on Angel's face. "You weren't sure I was coming back at all," he said slowly. "Why didn't you think I'd come back?"

"I don't know," Angel said, and his voice was distant, dreamy. "Everyone goes away in the end. Or I go away. Eventually, everyone gets lost to the demons..."

"Angel," Doyle said helplessly, reaching out a soothing hand. It stopped inches from Angel's skin, and he stared at his hand, tears of frustration in his eyes. "Angel, love, look at me. Angel," he said again, when his lover didn't look up, and still Angel didn't lift his head. Doyle looked around for something to lift and throw at him- there, a coat hanger, over in the corner. But when he tried to lift it he couldn't- he was too damn drained to lift a simple coat hanger. He glared down at his hand again, then abruptly slid into invisibility and zoomed up through the ceiling, then through the walls to Angel's room.

He stretched out on the bed, but he couldn't feel the smoothness of the satin sheets, or smell Angel's scent on the pillow. When he stroked a cautious hand over the wood, his hand went through, but he couldn't feel anything. He couldn't feel anything at all. It was as if he wasn't even there. As if he wasn't real.

He pulled his hand back out and stared at it despairingly. This was the source of all the trouble and pain. His touch, and the way he couldn't. He was a ghost. He wasn't tangible, he couldn't touch. Couldn't feel. He could observe the world around him, but he would never really be a part of it.

Hell, he couldn't even get drunk anymore.

Ghost-soft, ghost-quiet, he eased through the walls and down the stairs, keeping himself visible but barely so, just mist unless you looked a little closer. Except here everyone looked a little closer- this was Angel Investigations, and everyone had to look a little closer, or one day it could mean their lives.

Except Doyle, because he didn't have one. He was dead. Funny how the Fates had gifted him on that- he finally got what he wanted, only to find out that it was nothing at all like what he wanted, it only looked like it. He got Angel, and a best friend in Wes, and a life to be rebuilt after death, except, and here was the catch, ladies and gentleman, he couldn't touch anything. There would be no kisses from Angel, and none of the casual touches between friends bound a friendship tighter in some primal way. His skin burned to be touched, but there was nothing there to touch. Some days the only thing that kept him sane was the knowledge that people could see him, that they spoke to him and relied on him. Because of them, he was real. Without them, he would just fade away.

"Doyle?" Wes said from the foot of the steps. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," Doyle said, and then he laughed, low and raw in his throat. "Oh who am I kidding. Of course I'm not okay. I'm not sure that anything is okay, not really."

"Doyle," Wes started, but Doyle interrupted him.

"Am I real?" he demanded. Wes stared at him for a long moment, confusion in his dark velvet eyes. "Am I real?" he asked again, but this time his voice was softer. "You see me, right? You can hear my voice? I'm really here talking to you, so I must be real, no matter that I'm not really in this world, I'm just an observer, so does that make me halfway real?"

"You're real, Doyle," Wes said softly, soothingly, eyeing him as one eyes a particularly dangerous animal that just got loose from the zoo. "You're here, and I'm talking to you. Listen to me, Doyle, Cordelia and I are looking into a few things, and soon we may have a way to, to change your basic state, to make you solid, so that you can touch things, if you'll just give us a few days-"

"I can't listen to this now," Doyle interrupted, desperately trying to stop the flow of words. "I can't think about this. I can't be around here, not with Angel, it's killing me and I. have. to. go."

Wes watched sadly as he fled across the lobby and through the door. He closed his eyes, took his glasses off and gripped the bridge of his nose fiercely between his thumb and his forefinger. "I'm so sorry, Doyle," he whispered to the empty air. "But I have to try."

Distantly he heard Angel's office door opening, followed by the mingled sounds of Cordelia's heels and Angel's heavier booted tread. Both stopped a few feet away from him, and he raised a despairing gaze to Angel's face.

"He's gone," he said.

"He can't be," Angel said, and it looked like all the air he didn't need had been sucked entirely out of his lungs so his response came out as nothing more than a whisper. "He's gone for good?"

"I don't know," Wesley said slowly. "I really don't know."

****

* * *

"Can your kind get drunk?" a voice behind Lorne inquired.

"With enough alcohol to literally float a battleship, yes," Lorne responded calmly, not bothering to turn around. "Anything less just merits a pleasant buzz. What's wrong, Doyle?"

"I find myself in desperate need of getting drunk," Doyle responded, and slipped around from behind him and through the bar till he was standing where he could look Lorne in the eye. "Circumstances being what they are, though, I can't get drunk. Still, I thought that maybe if I hung around here long enough I could watch other people getting drunk and get drunk by proxy, sort of. Had to get out anyway."

"You've been doing that a lot recently," Lorne said quietly. "You always head here. Why?"

"Why which?" Doyle asked, staring with interest at the demon currently getting onto the stage. "He's gotta be a bass, with that huge chest of his."

"His singing is actually more along the lines of grunts, actually," Lorne said. "And why to both."

Doyle paused a moment to listen to the demon's "singing," and then shuddered eloquently. "I come here because I've known no one else in LA as long as I've known you. Besides, this place is all about escape and more about finding your way. And I had to get out because it's starting to kill me to stay there."

"Can't touch," Lorne said, knowing from weeks of a mopey Doyle in his bar what was wrong with his old friend. "Can't say as I blame you for wanting to get out of there."

Both of them winced in unison as the demon grated his way through the end of the song. "And now Wes is searching for a spell to turn me solid again. As if it wasn't enough of a mess as it was."

"I hate to tell you this, sweetie, but Wes looking for a spell to turn you solid isn't exactly a bad thing. It's more of a everything-you-want-possibly-coming-true thing."

"Exactly!" Doyle said, his eyes on the demon now lumbering off the stage. "Everything I wanted. So far, 'everything I wanted' has always turned into... not. Can't hope for that now."

"Listen," Lorne began, and then had to stop and turn to the demon that had just sang to give him the answer he needed. "Go home, kiddo," he told the hulking beast. "You know that your life partner wasn't actually cheating on you. Don't let your suspicions ruin a great thing you two have. You know that the whole rape and pillage thing isn't as fun without her by your side. Go home."

That settled, he turned back to Doyle, who wore a faintly amused expression on his face. "Listen, he said again, "You can't just keep yourself locked away like this. You gotta hope for something, even if your hopes usually get trampled on. If you don't you end up hurting yourself and everyone around you."

"Is that Lorne talking, or the Host?" Doyle asked curiously.

"I was speaking as your friend," Lorne said, "but get your sweet little ass onstage and I'll tell you what I see when you sing."

"Fair enough," Doyle said.

****

* * *

Wesley waited until he was well out of sight of the hotel before making a right turn and winding his way back towards Caritas. He didn't want Angel to know where he was going, but he needed to talk to Doyle, and he was fairly sure that Caritas was the place to find him. If it wasn't... then he had a very long night ahead of him.

Luckily, he hadn't guessed wrong. Doyle was just getting on stage when he entered the bar, and he immediately ducked into a shadowy corner so as not to distract his friend. Hearing Doyle sing was pretty much always a pleasure, and he didn't want to do anything to make him not sing.

He closed his eyes when Doyle stepped up to the mike and started singing. He didn't recognize the song, but Doyle's crooning tenor made the bittersweet lyrics, about lost loves and past regrets, wind tendrils of pain around his heart. He didn't open his eyes once until the very end of the song, when Doyle's voice trailed off into a whisper, then into nothing, and then his eyes snapped open and his gaze focused on the Host, leaning against the bar with something very like sorrow on his face. It hurt Wes even more to think about it, because he knew the Host didn't sorrow lightly, and that he did now only because of what he read in Doyle during the song.

Doyle walked slowly off the stage amid splitting whistles and cheers, and made his way over to the bar and the Host. "So?" he asked, his voice striving for lightness, but failing. Lorne shook his head and just rested one hand in the air just above Doyle's shoulder, not able to convey his empathy through contact but wanting to show how much he wished he could.

"You're in a world of pain, boyo," he said softly. "I didn't realize till now just how much. I can't tell you much, but there's real happiness in your future. I don't know when and I don't know how, but the answer will come to you like a bolt of lightning." When Doyle still looked doubtful, Lorne smiled at him. "It'll get better, you'll see," he said. "Trust me on this one. Have I ever led you wrong?"

"No," Doyle said with a smile. "And in the meantime, let's see about this getting-drunk-by-proxy thing."

"Doyle?" a voice questioned from behind him, and Doyle spun around to face Wesley. Immediately his eyes shuttered over, and Lorne gave a sympathetic smile to Wes.

"I don't want to talk about it," Doyle said. "You know I don't want to talk about it. And I can't go back, not now, maybe not ever."

"I didn't come here for that," Wes said. "You should know me better than that by now. I'm just here as your friend, you know. I don't want to talk about magicking you solid, or about making you come home because Angel's miserable. Which he is, by the way. I just came to talk about anything you want to talk about, and nothing at all if that's what you'd like."

"Will you get drunk for me?" Doyle asked. "I'm hoping that if I can watch someone getting drunk, I can pretend I'm drunk too."

"I would love to get drunk for you," Wes said gravely, but with a small spark of humor in his eyes. Yeah, things weren't all wrong yet. Somehow, they'd get better.

"Like a bolt of lightning, as I told Doyle," the Host said, and when Wes shot him a startled glance he just shrugged. "You were humming."

"I need a drink," Wes said, and slid onto a barstool. "Quite possibly several drinks."

"I knew you were good folk," Doyle said happily, and settled on the barstool next to him. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

****

* * *

"You're drunk," Cordelia told him when he stumbled into the lobby of the hotel. He looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

"I know," he said. "What time is it?"

"It's about three o'clock in the morning," she said. "Why are you here, and drunk?"

"You see, I was just trying to figure out if it really is as odd that you're here as I though it was," he said. "And it is, but then again, we work for Angel, so maybe the odd really is normal after all. What was the question?"

"Why are you here, and drunk?" she repeated. "I mean, I don't really care why you went and got drunk, but why did you come back here instead of your own place?"

"Have you ever tried to drive a motorcycle drunk?" he asked her. "Disaster. Here was closer. I was hoping that closer meant I was less likely to hit something and kill myself."

"Well, did you?" she demanded. "Not kill yourself, because it's obvious you're alive, but hit something." Suddenly she peered closer at him and laid two fingers across his throat. "You are alive, right? A pulse and everything? You didn't get all vampy and soulless or anything, did you?"

He batted her hand away. "Yes, I'm alive," he said irritably, "and no, I didn't hit anything. Now, all I really want to do is curl up and sleep it off, if you don't mind."

"I do, actually," she told him. "I don't trust you drunk. Even if all you intend to do is sleep. I should get you home, where I can watch over you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said in irritation. "I've been drunk before, you know. Amazingly, I can fall asleep without supervision. What am I, six?"

"I'm calling Gunn," she said. "Since even drunk you're stronger than me. Which is sad, by the way. That _you_, of all people, are stronger than me. It's also rather depressing."

"Thank you oh so very much," he muttered, and then shot a lethal glare at her. "And you are _not_ calling Gunn."

"Well, no one else will be able to bully you," she pointed out. "I mean, Angel could, but he's already asleep."

"And so is Gunn, I'm sure," he said with a faint tinge of desperation. "So no need to call him. Just leave me alone, and I'll go to sleep and not trouble you further."

"He's doing sweeps," she told him. "Only a couple blocks away. He'd be happy to."

"You know better than that, Cordelia," Wes said quietly, suddenly sounding entirely sober. "You know that every time we're in a room together we end up at each other's throats. What on Earth could induce him to babysit me, especially when I don't need to be babysat?"

"He'll do it, Wes," she said. "I promise."

"I don't want you to promise, Cordelia," he told her. "I don't want you to call him at all. I just want you to leave me alone to sleep." She looked at him for a moment, a peculiar look in her eyes, and he groaned as he recognized it. "And I _don't_ want you to play matchmaker," he said. "Now go away and let me sleep."

"Your neck's going to hurt tomorrow," she warned. "Don't come crying to me."

"Cordelia," he snapped, and she held up her hands.

"No need to get all huffy about it," she said, slightly offended. "I was just trying to help."

"Don't try so hard," he said with a sigh. "I don't think I can survive you trying to help me. I've got enough problems at the moment."

"Doyle?" she asked, dropping her offended act and coming over to sit next to him. "That's where you were, isn't it?"

"I was at Caritas, yes."

"How is he?"

"He was trying to get drunk by proxy," he said with a faint tinge of amusement. "He told me that maybe if he could watch someone getting drunk, he could pretend that he was drunk too."

"Which explains the you being drunk part," she said, smiling. "Did it work?"

"Not particularly," he sighed, "but it was worth it anyway. It was nice to see him smile again."

"It has been a while," she said, and they sat in silence for a moment. Finally she shook her head and stood up again. "I'm going home, finally," she said, and looked down at him with a question in her eyes. "You're sure you don't want me to-"

"Don't call Gunn," he interrupted. "I'm sure. Thank you though, for your concern."

"What are friends for?" she asked flippantly, but she smiled at him and rested one hand on his shoulder for an instant before leaving, shutting the door with a quiet click behind her.

He sighed and stretched out on the couch, staring up at the dark arch of the ceiling. Doyle... there really wasn't anything he could do to help his friend except try to find the spell he wanted, but he wasn't sure it could be done. And even if he could find it, convincing Doyle to let him do it would be a considerable challenge, since the ghost was so afraid to hope for anything to go right. Doyle may have found peace with himself, but he was still himself, and he wasn't perfect, no matter how much he seemed to be, some days. He was still Doyle with Doyle's imperfections, and that was what made him so endearing to everyone around him. But right now those same imperfections might very well rip his unlife wide apart.

The front door creaked open and he shot to a seated position before he made out the outline of Gunn's smoothly shaven head against the moonlight spilling out from behind him. He relaxed back against the couch cushions, his heart still pounding wildly, and said, "What are you doing here?"

"Cordelia called me, told me you were drunk and needed someone to make sure you didn't get hurt or something."

He sighed and let his head loll back till he could stare at the ceiling again. "I'm not that drunk," he said. "And I can handle myself drunk, you know. I'm thirty years old, and I've been drinking beer most of my life. I told Cordelia not to call you, and then I told her again, and when that didn't sink in I told her again, and-"

"And she promptly went outside and called me," Gunn said. "Relax, English. It's not your fault. She worries about you. It ain't exactly a bad thing, you know. Relish the worrying that you can get."

"I know," he said with a sigh. "And it's good having her look after me- most of the time. This is not one of those times." He lifted his head up to stare at Gunn. "You don't need to stay here, though. I don't want to keep you." A little stiffness had crept into his voice, no matter how hard he'd tried to keep it from getting there. He was so used to the way that he and Gunn clashed every time that they were together that he couldn't help getting a little defensive in preparation for whatever verbal darts Gunn had in store this time.

"You're not keeping me," Gunn said easily, and stepped out of the doorway, into the room. He propped his battleaxe against the wall and shut the door behind him, then moved silently across the lobby floor to sit on the couch next to Wes. "I'd just finished when Cordy called, and I figured you were all right but I thought I'd stop by anyway and check. She was more worried about your emotions than your blood alcohol count."

"Doyle," Wes said with a sigh. "Everything's a mess. It was so perfect for just a little while when he first came back, and then everything started to implode."

"Angel brooding, you upset because Doyle's your best friend, Cordelia upset because everyone else is upset, and Doyle just plain heartbroken," Gunn summed up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"And even with all the beer I drank I still can't seem to relax," Wes admitted with a sigh. "Shoulders are in knots that would fell an ox."

He jumped a bit, startled, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder, but then he forced his muscles to loosen just a little bit and his heart to slow it's frantic beat. "Turn around," Gunn said, almost in a whisper, and Wes shifted on the couch till his back was fully towards the bigger man.

He waited for a moment, breath caught in his throat, then almost moaned when he felt Gunn's huge hands kneading at his shoulders, spreading heat across his chilled skin and leaching away all the tension. This was one of his favorite daydreams, or a close enough approximation- Gunn taking care of him. Admittedly, those daydreams usually turned slightly more erotic, but he wasn't about to let himself think about that now- he was just going to enjoy the rare feeling of ease and quiet in Gunn's presence.

"Done," Gunn said after a little while. "I'd go longer but my hands are all cramped up from holding that battleaxe on sweeps tonight."

Wesley turned around slowly and met his eyes for a brief instant. "Let me," he said, taking one of Gunn's big hands between his smaller ones. He began to gently rub and massage the wide palm, keeping his head bent down and his gaze focused on nothing in particular. Gunn let him do it, and when he tugged his hand free after a little while, making Wesley's heart contract, it was only to put his other hand in his grasp in a clear offer for another massage.

"Done," Wes said after a little while, and he dropped Gunn's hand suddenly like it had bitten him. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling again, thinking that pretty soon he'd have to find something else to stare at because Gunn was going to figure out that he was only doing it so that he wouldn't look at Gunn. "I haven't been this relaxed in... I don't know how long, really. A long time."

"I know the feeling," Gunn said with a sigh. "And I haven't even been around here that much recently."

Wes didn't say anything, not wanting to break the fragile peace, but apparently his thoughts were all too clear on his face, because Gunn suddenly looked at him sharply. Wes saw the familiar signs of a fight brewing in Gunn's eyes, and he silently cursed his sometimes too-expressive face as he mentally scrambled for a way to avert the coming emotional apocalypse.

"You don't have to say anything," Gunn said bitterly, before Wes had a chance to respond. "I know what you're thinking. I've been abandoning AI for whatever reason and you think I'm just doing this for kicks."

"I wasn't thinking that," Wes said, though his thoughts had been running along those lines. The abandoning lines, not the for kicks lines, but there was enough truth in Gunn's accusation that his voice had blanked out in defense, and Gunn took it as a confession of guilt.

"I hate it when you do that," Gunn snapped. "You get all proper and British and I can practically see the starch in your spine and the teacup in your hand and that little British sneer that means that you're thinking how above this you are."

"You're not a great improvement," Wes said, smoothly and very British. "You always get that little smirk, the one that says 'Oh I'm a big tough black guy, watch me swagger around and think how above all this human emotion I am." Which was less British, but nasty enough that Wes figured it counted anyway.

"I'm leaving," Gunn said, getting up and walking towards the door.

"What you do best," Wes said snidely to his back, and watched as the muscles along Gunn's spine tensed.

"It was a mistake coming here tonight," Gunn said, and picked up his battleaxe. "I'm gone."

"Yes, you are," Wesley said to the empty doorway. "And it's always a mistake, now."

Then he curled up on his side and buried his face in his arms to muffle the noise as he cried himself to sleep.


	4. Redefinition

**Chapter Four: Redefinition.** Humor, angst, sex, and hangovers... it all comes together. Well, most of it, anyway.

****

* * *

"Wes, why are you in my lobby?"

Wes blinked as he looked up at Angel's slightly blurry face. "I was drunk," he explained. "And was afraid that I would hit something if I tried to drive all the way to my apartment. Here was closer."

Angel shrugged and turned back to Cordelia's desk, where he was looking through something. Wes struggled up to a sitting position, blearily trying to convince his head that it wasn't really attached to the rest of him, because hopefully that way it would hurt less.

"What are you looking for?" he asked Angel, hoping that the vampire would respond civilly and not snap at him, because that would make his head hurt worse and that was a thought not to be born.

"It's an old case file I asked Cordelia to dig up this morning," Angel said distractedly, scanning through the file folder. "We got the demon, but it got stuck in my head a few weeks ago and I thought that maybe something was off about it. I asked her to dig it up, and I'm just trying to see if there's anything that can tell me what's got me feeling so off about this case..." He trailed off, staring hard at the page, and then his gaze met Wesley's again. "I found it. The report said that the body was found in the small garden behind the house. Next to it was _two_ pairs of footprints: your typical club-footed demon type, and a much smaller pair, almost like bird tracks. We dismissed the second pair because the wife was an avid bird watcher and kept several bird feeders, so we just assumed that it was a regular bird. But there were also small traces of salt in the throat wounds that killed him, and the bird seed was untouched. What does that add up to in you head?"

"I'm hungover," Wes informed him. "You'll have to tell me."

"Lesseine demon," Angel told him, sounding exasperated. "You should be able to get that one in your sleep, much less hungover."

"Angel, I'm not just hungover, I'm _really_ hungover," Wes said tiredly. "And it's a little too early to be playing Watcher. Just tell me, please?"

"Very small, very vicious demon. Very similar to the birdlike dinosaurs from... some era or other. Blood drinkers, like vampires, but they have a thing for tearing the victim's throat open and drinking that way. They also excrete a sodium compound, very similar to salt, as a sort of mating call. They're also extremely intelligent and very rare, probably because salt is such a common substance and it's hard to actually find the demon to mate."

"Now I can connect them," Wes said, starting to look more awake. "And the demon that we tracked and killed?"

"Polvarish demon," Angel said. "Carrion feeder."

"And we thought that the Polvarish was the killer," Wes said, shaking his head. "I should have known better, at least- we did case studies on Lesseine demons for weeks. Either way, what are you intending to do now? Track the Lesseine?"

"Exactly," Angel said grimly. Wes looked at him for a long moment, measuring the look on his face, before he decided to open his mouth.

"Angel, how do you intend to find out where he was, much less where he is? The case was weeks ago. For all we know he could be in another country right now, much less out of LA."

"I have to do something, Wes," Angel said, and his eyes were shadowed by pain when he lifted his head to meet Wesley's steady gaze. "Besides, I was thinking of going to Caritas, see if the Host has heard anything. If anyone has heard something, it'd be him. And if not, I could always sing."

Wes winced. Doyle, at Caritas, and Angel, at Caritas, was a very bad combination. Throw in Angel singing and, well... he was just too hungover to deal with it.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked quickly. "You can always chat up Merle- he's certainly usually well-informed on the comings and goings of the demon community."

"I'd really prefer to go to Caritas first," Angel said. "Then I can track down Merle and hit him up for some information."

"We," Wes said wearily, thinking that really, he had way too much loyalty to his friends if he was doing this. "I'm going with you."

"Why?" Angel demanded, and luckily Wes had an answer ready for him.

"I don't have anything better to do with my day, frankly," Wes said, keeping his voice light and vaguely bored. "Besides, if anyone has a decent handover remedy, it's the Host." He'd heard Doyle calling the Host "Lorne" the whole evening, but he didn't have the friendship- or the comfort level- to use what seemed to be the Host's real name. Wes was surprised that Doyle did- he'd known that the half-breed was friends with the green demon, but he hadn't realized just how close they were.

"True enough," Angel responded, and Wes refocused his thoughts on his present company. How, exactly, was he supposed to keep Doyle and Angel from coming into contact with each other- in a less literal sense- when he could barely keep his head from splitting in two?

****

* * *

Doyle knew the instant that Angel walked into the bar. Just because he wasn't exactly a real solid part of the world around him didn't mean that he couldn't feel when his lover was anywhere near by, and so when he saw Wes casting a frantic glance around, he had to smile. Poor Wes was looking slightly greenish from all the alcohol he's consumed the night before, and still he'd come with Angel this morning when it was obvious he would much rather be sleeping it off. He'd come to warn him, Doyle was sure, and he closed his eyes in sympathy as he winked out of visibility. He shifted across the bar floor to the steps near the base of the stage, where Lorne was waiting to give his advice to the singer currently onstage.

"Lorne," he hissed, and the demon jumped as if something had bitten him before glancing towards where he assumed Doyle was standing. Doyle shifted till he was hidden by the Host's larger form and then shimmered back into visibility. "Wes and Angel are here. Angel wants something, and Wes is here to try to warn me that Angel is here before we could run into each other, and he looks hungover. Really hungover. Can you do me a favor and get Ramon to fix up the special cure to give him? He looks like he desperately needs it."

"No problem, cutie," Lorne told him. "Just as soon as I help our beastie friend, here," he added with a nod to the singer on the stage. "Just stay out of sight, and we can handle this, alright?"

"Alright," Doyle said, and vanished again before drifting over to hear what Wes and Angel were talking about.

"Where's the Host?" Angel was demanding to Wes, who pointed with an unenergetic hand towards the stage steps where Lorne was talking to the demon who'd just sung. "I've gotta ask him if he's heard anything about the Lesseine."

"Yes, Angel, I know," Wesley said ever-so-patiently, while Doyle's invisible eyebrows rose. A Lesseine? Nasty little buggers, they were. He hadn't heard anything about one being in LA, and he was pretty well connected to hear things like that. Why was Angel hunting one now?

"That _is_ why we're here," Wes continued. "Why I'm here with a splitting headache, instead of still asleep on your couch and not feeling a thing. But I'm sure that your questions can wait until he's finished giving his advice to... whatever he's giving his advice to."

"I know," Angel said glumly. "I just want to be... doing something."

"I know," Wes said, slightly more gently this time. "But I doubt anything terrible is going to happen in the next minute or so that will keep you from talking to him."

And of course, that was the moment that the lights went out.

Over all the various noises of surprise and discontent coming from the various humans, demons, and other things in the bar, Doyle heard Wes sigh and add, "You'd think I'd learn not to say things like that, wouldn't you?" He didn't hear Angel's scathing response, because he heard Lorne calling his name at the top of his very powerful lungs and was zooming back across the floor to the stage to see what his friend wanted.

"The electricity went out," the Host told him. "And something happened to the backup spell. You've got some form of telekinesis, don't you?"

"Only little stuff," he said. "I can't really pick up anything heavier than a small book, or push anything heavier than a door."

"Little stuff's all I need. Can you look at the wires for me? I don't have to worry about you getting electrocuted since you're not solid, and you can see well enough in the dark to see what you're doing, and your touch- so to speak- is more delicate than any demon in the bar. You'll do it for me?"

"Sure," he said. "Stall Angel. I'm sure he heard you call for me, and he's gonna be looking for me. Don't let him find me."

"Gotcha," Lorne said, and as Doyle winked out of visibility and ghosted through the curtain to the electrical box at the back, he heard his friend exclaim, "Angelcakes! Didn't see you here. Probably something to do with the utter blackness in here, right?"

He pulled the other half of his mind out of the Dreaming to devote more attention to the confusing welter of wires in the electrical box in front of him, but left his ears cocked to hear the rest of Angel and Lorne's conversation. "Where's Doyle?" his lover demanded, and Doyle had to smile a moment at Angel's directness before glaring at the wires. Who had designed this system, a Kesslar demon?

"Not here," Lorne said. "Let me get you a drink, something to tide you over until the lights come back on."

"I don't want a drink, I want Doyle," Angel said, as Doyle mentally flipped through the wires, tracing the cords back to their outlets, which oh thank god were labeled properly. At least, he hoped they were labeled properly.

"Well, since you can't have Doyle at the moment," Lorne said with an unusual bite to his voice, "why not have a drink instead? The lights will be back on in a few, I'm sure- someone's backstage right now, working on them."

Angel's head snapped up and he stared at the curtain for a long moment, then muttered, "Doyle." Doyle, finally figuring out which wire was defective, gripped it with his mind, preparing to pull it out and replace it with a slightly less fried wire. He took a deep breath and yanked it out, and Angel rushed backstage just in time to see his lover engulfed in writhing blue flames and collapse slowly to the floor.

Lorne, following just behind him, held him back when he would have charged forward and gotten himself electrocuted as well. Angel threw him off and reached for Doyle as the last blue sparks faded into nothing, and scooped the smaller man into his arms.

Doyle blinked slowly into consciousness, and when his eyes fluttered open he slid straight through Angel's arms and hit the floor with a loud thump. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head, green eyes cloudy with confusion, then blinked down at the floor. Angel watched him with agonized eyes as he stroked one hand over the smoothly polished wood floor, then slid his hand through the floor, then drew it out and pressed down on the wood without slipping through. He looked up at his lover with a wholehearted smile in his eyes.

"Cool," he pronounced, then laughed as Angel lunged forward to haul him up into his arms again and proceeded to kiss him with rough desperation. The laughter faded from his eyes and he wrapped his arms around Angel, kissing him hungrily and running his hands up and down his back as if he couldn't get enough of his newfound sense of touch.

Lorne cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling, absently rubbing his arm where it had connected with the wall when Angel had thrown him aside. Wesley charged in, then stopped and did a comic double take when he saw Angel and Doyle entwined around each other.

"I'm not dreaming, right?" Wes asked Lorne. "They can't touch in the waking world. Just in dreams. Because Doyle is incorporeal."

"Was, apparently," the Host corrected him. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm awake. My dreams tend to be more along the lines of the beach, a Sea Breeze in my hand, and a young hottie rubbing on tanning oil. And I'm seeing them...." He paused for a moment, staring at the still embracing couple. "Whoa, I didn't know you could _do_ that with your tongue."

Wes winced as he reflexively looked over at the couple. "That's, um, rather unusual. Certainly nothing I've seen before." His eyes got larger. "That's... very impressive."

"Someone's gotta break up the love-fest," the Host pointed out. "Otherwise they'll be here all night. And I can't let them have sex backstage. Bad for business."

"If you think I'm getting in the middle of that," Wesley said as he pointed to Angel and Doyle, "you're sadly mistaken."

The Host sighed. "Always left to me," he muttered. "I always get the worst jobs." He took a deep breath, then yelled, "Hey, loverboys! Get your tongues out of each others throats and take it somewhere else."

Wes winced as Angel slowly disengaged from the kiss- and Wesley was sure that they were both glad they were already dead, because otherwise they would have suffocated by this point- and shot a lethal glare at the Host. "Excuse me?"

"You heard right," Lorne told him. "Get your asses off my stage and outta my club before you do that. Try not to crash and kill anyone on the way back to the hotel."

Angel growled and tightened his possessive hold on Doyle, but Doyle detangled one hand from Angel's shirt to stroke two soothing fingers over Angel's cheek. "He's right, Angel. 'Sides, faster we get back to the hotel, faster we can crawl into bed and stay there for a few days."

Angel's completely unneeded breath caught in the back of his throat. "I like that plan," he said, and his voice was inhumanly low, an almost inaudible rumble. "Very good plan."

"Glad you like it," Doyle said, and then waved to Lorne and Wes. "If you'll excuse us, we'll see you in a couple of days."

"Have a nice time, kiddies," Lorne said, laughing under his breath and Angel towed his smaller lover out of the club. He and Wes followed out to the club floor at a more leisurely pace, and Wes sat down on the barstool while Lorne leaned against the smooth metal bartop next to him. Silence reigned for a few moments, and then Wes said, "I need a drink."

****

* * *

"You're going to crash into something," Doyle pointed out as the squealed around another turn. "And if you kill us, then we can't have sex." He stopped to consider this. "No way a car crash could kill us. We're already dead. Okay, so it would delay us having sex. You'd better slow down."

Angel slowed down a little, then shot a glance at Doyle, sprawled out on the seat next to him. He made a little growling noise in the base of his throat, and then hit the accelerator again. "Alright, just so's you know that if we get a speeding ticket, I'm not taking the blame. Just a warning," he added cheerfully when Angel glared at him. "Wouldn't want to not have sex, or anything."

"You're not helping me slow down," Angel gritted out. "Every time you say the word 'sex' my foot hits the accelerator again. It's like it's instinctive, or something."

"Sorry," Doyle said, and then waited till Angel was just turning a corner before he added wickedly, "It's just that I really want to have sex."

The car actually tilted a little, this time, and Doyle watched the pavement with interest as it got a little closer to him. "Careful, there. Might break something."

"Play nice," Angel said, and this time Doyle managed to hold his tongue until they'd actually parked in front of the hotel.

They stumbled into the foyer, tripping over each other and grinning madly, hands already touching and stroking and squeezing in utter desperation. "Bed?" Doyle questioned in a half-hoarse whisper, and instead of answering Angel gripped his hips and lifted him flush up against his chest. Doyle's eyes rolled back into his head as his cock pressed against Angel's through the layers of slacks and boxers. Angel freed one hand, holding Doyle against him one-handedly and mentally sending frantic thank you's towards the joys of vampiric strength, and tilted Doyle's chin up so that he could devour the smaller man's mouth. Doyle moaned and rolled his hips, and then _Angel's_ eyes started to roll back into his head.

Doyle tore his mouth free and said, "We'll never make it to the bed like this." Then a wicked look danced across his face, and he said, "Last one there gets the bottom," before simply melting away in Angel's arms.

He reappeared at the top of the steps and waved cheerily down at his lover. "Uh, hello, vampiric speed? I'm sure you can make it up to the room pretty quick, though you're still gonna get bottom."

"Why are you so sure that I'm getting bottom?" Angel demanded as he sprinted across the floor and up the steps. He yanked Doyle up against him and kissed him again, sliding his hands down his lover's back and into the loose pants to squeeze his ass. Doyle moaned into his mouth, just as Angel, mentally celebrating the fact that his soul didn't stop him from a _little_ torture, just enough to get his way, pulled himself completely away and ran down the hall. He leapt onto the bed just as Doyle materialized in the room and jumped for it too, but Angel landed on the bottom with Doyle sprawled over his chest.

Doyle blinked and propped himself up. "So, you made it here first. Let's see, that makes me the bottom this time... Oh, what a shame," he said with a grin, and Angel mock-glared at him.

"No fair making me work to get you where you wanted to be in the first place," Angel said. Doyle just grinned at him.

"Obviously, you're going to have to punish me. Later," he added, when Angel gaped at him. "Because, sex? You almost crashed your car on the way here to get us both naked, and here we are, all comfy-like on the bed and not a stitch of clothing has yet been removed."

"Working on that," Angel told him, and grabbed the soft shirt that Doyle was wearing with a firm grip before ripping it clean in two. Doyle grinned against the mouth that was suddenly pressed against his and rubbed his tongue against Angel's as he took advantage of his very convenient ghostly powers to unbutton and tug off Angel's shirt while his hands were busy on the buttons of Angel's slacks. He noticed with a vague corner of his mind that his mind-moving powers seemed a tad bit stronger, but he wasn't exactly paying a lot of attention, distracted as he was by the hands that were busily unzipping _his_ slacks and pulling them off. He laughed and Angel encountered difficulty getting them down over his hips, and caused them to just melt away.

"Ghost-fabric, heart," he told Angel. "Same thing happened to the shirt, when you took out your frustrations on it." He shifted his weight to his knees so that he was straddling Angel, instead of sprawled across him, and nodded at the slacks. "You might want to take those off the more normal way, though."

Angel grinned at him and stood up. He was in too much of a hurry to make a proper show of it, so he just yanked open the button fly of his black jeans and wriggled out of them with little ceremony, kicking them into a corner before diving back onto the bed. Doyle laughed and rolled on top of him again, diving into a sudden kiss with enthusiasm as he groped at the bedside table for lube.

Angel had gotten there first, and he grabbed it and pressed it into his lover's hand. Doyle pulled back from the kiss enough to get the cap off and squeezed some onto Angel's hand, then guided the vampire's hand around to his ass helpfully. A soft breath of laughter huffed against Doyle's mouth, and Angel said, "Coulda found the way all by myself, you know," before sinking one finger all the way in with little ceremony and less warning.

Doyle threw his head back and gasped, one small corner of his mind focused on staying solid but just solid enough that Angel's touch didn't hurt. "Yeah, well, I'm a helpful sort of guy," he got out, and Angel laughed again as he slowly worked a second finger, and then a third, into Doyle's ass.

Doyle grabbed the little tube of slick from the extra pillow that it had been dropped on, and squirted some on his own hand before spreading it over Angel's cock with a firm touch that had Angel arching up into his hand and groaning. "Shit, it's been too long," Angel growled, and pulled Doyle up the couple inches that was needed to align everything properly, and sank oh-so-slowly into his body.

Everything froze for a moment, and they both looked at each other, panting. Then Doyle thrust his hips back, causing Angel to go those last few inches in, and they both moaned a little at the sensations that streaked through them.

Holding each other's gaze all the while, they slowly rocked together, enjoying the sense of connection almost more than the physical sensations. But then matters abruptly became urgent for both of them, and Angel rolled the smaller man underneath him to get a better angle before thrusting harder and faster than before. Doyle wrapped his legs around Angel's waist and draped his arms around his neck, sinking his short fingernails into the solid packs of muscle flexing in Angel's shoulders. Angel felt his rhythm deteriorating as he drew closer to orgasm, and twisted to get one hand between them and wrapped firmly around Doyle's cock. A few long pulls and Doyle was bowed backwards, his spine bending to an almost impossible angle and his mouth framed into a perfect "o" as he came so hard he could barely breathe. Angel wasn't far behind, slamming into him once more and losing his iron grip on control as he felt Doyle contract around him, and roared as his orgasm poured out of him.

They both collapsed into a boneless heap, and Doyle started to waver out of tangibility before he growled something under his breath and snapped back into solidity. Angel laughed under his breath and wrapped his arms around his lover's waist, rolling over till Doyle was draped over him, and Angel grinned up at him.

"Go to sleep," he said. "We can deal with everything in the morning."

"Dream of me?" Doyle said, and Angel pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"You know I always do," he said, and with a happy sigh Doyle snuggled down, tucking his head under Angel's chin. Both of them drifted off to sleep, content in the knowledge that everything would still be there to deal with in the morning.


	5. Rainbow's End

**Chapter Five: Rainbow's End.** Ah, the happy ending. At long last.

* * *

****

Wesley was hungover. Again. And he greatly did not appreciate being hungover, thank you very much.

Not that anyone _cared_ that he was hungover except him, so he just sat on the couch and drank a cup of very hot, very black coffee, as slowly as possible. Cordelia was in her office, pretending to work but really just making indecipherable happy noises to herself about the fact that Doyle and Angel were upstairs, curled up asleep on the bed. Wesley knew this for a fact because she had dragged him up there, and made him open the door for her so that _he_ would get yelled at if they woke Angel up, and then had made happy noises about seeing them and had dragged him back out.

He took another slow sip of coffee. Thankfully, it was only Cordelia. He knew that she'd called Gunn, but Gunn had, very fortunately, decided not to come in. Or so Cordelia had told him when she'd gotten off the phone with him. Which he'd been very glad to hear, because the only thing that could make his morning worse right now was-

"Hey, decided to come in anyway. How're the lovebirds doing?"

Oh, of course. Because his head didn't hurt enough when he was _by himself,_ he now had to deal with Gunn, as well. Splendid.

"They're asleep," Cordelia told him, when it became clear that Wesley wasn't going to say anything, or even move from his completely comfortable sprawl on the couch. Of course he wasn't going to move- his head hurt too much to move.

"Wes had too much to drink yesterday and is on the couch, again," Cordelia informed Gunn, and Wes lifted one hand above the back of the couch in a half-hearted wave without actually bothering to sit up. "Wes, get up and say hello."

"I'm comfortable, thank you all the same," Wesley said, his voice very, very dry. He could feel Cordelia's glare from across the room, but he felt a devastating lack of motivation to do as she wanted and get up. Mostly because he was perfectly well aware of the fact that she was just trying to play matchmaker between him and Gunn, and that she was doomed to fail in that respect. He and Gunn were never going to be able to get along, much less be comfortable around one another or, God forbid, actually get together. It was just so far out of any possible scope of imagining that he couldn't even think about it without his brain threatening to shut down completely.

"It's fine, Cordy. Wouldn't want to hurt his head, or anything."

Wesley snorted quietly at that. Right. Gunn, caring about his welfare?

Gunn must have heard his snort, because he could _feel_ the glare that was sent in his direction, and it wasn't from Cordelia, either. Oddly enough, he didn't care. He didn't even care enough to sit up and show Gunn how very much he didn't care.

He did sit up, however, when he heard a yawn from the top of the steps. Angel, most likely, which was confirmed when Cordelia said, "Angel, you're awake!" and he looked up to see Angel, wearing only a pair of black jeans and a halfway-buttoned shirt, started down the steps, buttoning his shirt the rest of the way as he went.

"Barely," Angel said. "And I have no idea why. God, I'm tired."

"Well, it's not like you got much sleep last night," Cordelia said, which no semblance of tact whatsoever, and Wesley had to laugh out loud at the disgruntled look Angel gave her.

But Angel surprised him by replying, "No, I didn't get much sleep last night," with a wicked little grin on his face. "I had better things to do."

"Yeah, like Doyle," Cordelia said with a little snort. "If ever anyone was a bottom-boy, it's him."

Angel looked like he was actually blushing, but it was hard to tell from as far away as Wesley was. "Thank you, Cordy. You couldn't maybe share those opinions while I'm not in the room?"

"Not really," Cordelia said, supremely uncaring of Angel's discomfort. "Speaking of Doyle, where is he?"

"Enjoying his first shower in several years, when I came down," Angel said. "He might be out by now, though."

Right on cue, there was a brief flash of color from above, and then Doyle was standing in the middle of the lobby floor, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I don't suppose you considered actually using the steps?" Wesley asked mildly, and Doyle shot a smug glance his direction. Wesley sighed. "No, I didn't think so."

"Mornin', all," Doyle said, and wandered over to Angel's side. "And good morning to _you,_" he said in the vampire's ear, and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his neck before wandering behind the counter to look for coffee.

Angel shivered, and watched Doyle, and everyone pretended that they didn't notice. Wesley thought of several things he wanted to say, and indeed, several of them he probably should say at some point, but most of those were things that only Angel and Doyle needed to hear, not the entire lobby. He'd have to wait until he could get them alone.

He lay back down again and threw an arm over his eyes, ignoring the way that the abrupt movement made his head throb. The complete blackness that his arm provided was reward enough to put up with a brief head-throb, considering that his headache disappeared almost completely a moment later, providing that he stayed very, very still.

Just as he was finally settling down into a dark, quiet, peaceful sort of place, bolstered by the murmurs of Doyle and Cordelia bantering in the background, he heard footsteps approach and stop right next to him. He briefly considered just ignoring Gunn, because it couldn't be anyone _but_ Gunn, but after a long moment of thought he lowered his arm with a sigh and cracked one eye open.

Sure enough, there was Gunn, staring down at him from a great height, which seemed even greater than usual because he was lying on the couch. The expression on Gunn's face was new, though- a sort of tentative, half-nervous, half-smiling expression that sat very oddly on his usually blank face. Well, it was usually blank around Wesley, anyway. When he wasn't glaring.

In one hand, he held a steaming mug.

"Hangover remedy," he said before Wesley could ask. "Don't ask what's in it. I found the recipe in one of your books last time Cordelia made us clean, and you probably don't wanna know what's in it. So don't ask."

"Don't worry, I won't," Wesley said, and sat up slowly before cautiously taking the mug. Their fingers brushed when the mug changed hands, and Wesley felt the heat flash through him, the same way it always did when he and Gunn touched. Gunn looked startled and jerked his hand back, and Wesley barely managed to avoid spilling the mug.

Gunn took a few steps back, and Wesley braced himself for the sarcastic, cutting, and/or derisive comment that would inevitably follow.

"Um... well... yeah."

And with that particular piece of eloquence, Gunn fled to Angel's office.

Wesley stared after him, deeply confused. This wasn't like Gunn at all. Gunn was... arrogant, and sardonic, and he didn't like Wesley. That was just the way things were.

Ignoring the little voice that told him that it wasn't the way things used to be, he wrapped both hands around the mug and, anticipating the disgusting taste, drained it in one swallow.

* * *

****

Several hours later, Wesley finally managed to corner Doyle in Angel's office. Angel was... off somewhere else, which was just as well, because as comfortable as Wesley sometimes felt around Angel, it was much less awkward to bring up this particular subject when it was just Doyle.

Doyle watched him with inscrutable eyes as he shut the door and leaned against it, trying to work up the courage to start this conversation. He fidgeted for a moment, and cleared his throat a couple times, and even started to reach for his glasses with the intent of cleaning them before he realized what he was doing and dropped his hands to his sides again, a blush staining his cheeks.

"Just spit it out," Doyle told him finally, sounding amused. Wesley sighed.

"It's rather awkward," he pointed out. "Which I'm sure you know since you know exactly what I'm trying to talk about, damn it. You're just enjoying watching me squirm."

"Only a little," Doyle admitted. "I'm also trying to avoid talking about it. Not really something I want to think about, you know."

"I know," Wesley said. Even to himself, he sounded tired. "So I'll talk about it." Deep breath. "Angel's curse. I know you, er..."

"Did the wild thing?" Doyle supplied helpfully. "Heated up the sheets? Made sweet, sweet love all night long?"

"Yes, thank you very much," Wesley said, very dryly, not sounding grateful at all. "Even a decent attempt to sidetrack me. However, I'm fairly determined to talk about it, since the issue rather concerns us all. You had sex. He obviously didn't lose his soul."

"No," Doyle said, and he sounded less than happy. "I know he didn't. And before you ask, I don't know why. I didn't think he would- I wouldn't have if I'd thought there was the chance- but I don't know why I thought that, or why I was right."

"Interesting that you knew that before the fact," Wesley mused. "Still, we need to know."

"Why?" Doyle burst out. "Why can't we just leave it be?" Wesley opened his mouth to answer, and Doyle cut him off. "Or if you simply can't let it be, can't you let it wait? Just a couple of days. Or even one. Just a little time where I don't have to worry about something. We're happy, damn it all to hell. Finally. This has been a possibility between us since the first moment we met, and after two and a half years, we have it. I don't want to have to think about it going wrong. Can't it wait?"

Wesley paused, and then chose his words carefully. He'd never seen Doyle this upset. Not even when he'd stormed away from the hotel a few days before, not even in the depths of his not-drunk despair. This was upset bordering on the edge of hysteria.

"I can look into it on my own," he said finally, very cautiously. "You don't have to worry about it." Doyle's eyes looked so painfully hopeful that Wesley sighed, and gave himself up to several days of work with no sleep and quite possibly getting himself killed. "In fact, don't even think about it. Go back out. Bother Angel. I'll take care of everything. I swear it."

Just then there was a knock at the door, and when Wesley called out an automatic, "Come in," and moved away from the door Angel came in, looking worried.

"I heard you talking," he said. "Just voices. Doyle sounded pretty upset. What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Wesley said, and he knew it was true. He was going to make sure of it. "Just some business I need to take care of."

Angel looked at him silently for a moment, clearly not believing him, and then apparently decided that it didn't matter at the moment and brushed past him on his way to Doyle's side. Doyle smiled up at him and took his hand, all trace of upset vanished, and said, "It's nothing. Don't worry about it. I'm not."

Seeing that he was no longer needed, Wesley slipped out and headed for the stairs. He knew that Angel kept some things in his room that he might need, if he was going to find the answers he was looking for.

* * *

****

The sun was just setting when he left the hotel and headed for his flat, a small black bag slung over one shoulder and a plan worked out. He had a book on his shelf that he wanted to check, but he was almost certain that he could get all the information he needed, now. It was only a matter of time.

"Hey."

He turned around, one hand resting on the seat of his bike and the other clutching his helmet, and stared at Gunn. "Hello."

Gunn stared at him for a minute, not saying anything. Wesley said nothing as well, determined to wait him out, but after a moment he gave up and with a sigh he asked, "Was there something you wanted?"

"Yeah," Gunn said. "I wanna know what you're up to."

_Bugger._ "I'm going home," he said, as calmly as he knew how. "That's all."

"And where you goin' after that?" Gunn said, and shook his head as he studied him. "Oh yeah, you're up to something all right. Let me guess. Angel and Doyle? Perfect happiness? Curse? How am I doin'?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Wes said, and turned to get on his bike.

Gunn grabbed his arm and Wesley turned back, startled. Gunn didn't touch him. Ever. Even when they were standing toe to toe and screaming at each other, which had happened once or twice in the last few weeks, Gunn had never touched him.

"Let me go."

"Uh-uh, don't think so. Y'see, I've got this theory. You wanna know what my theory is?"

"I couldn't care less," Wesley snapped, trying to keep his heart rate down to normal by sheer force of will, and he tugged uselessly at his arm. "Maybe I'll care after you _let go of my arm._"

"Don't think so," Gunn said again. "Not risking you taking off before I get a chance to get some answers out of you. Let's try, what's at your apartment that you need? And then let's try, where are you going, and what the hell are you gonna do?"

"None of your fucking business," Wesley gritted out, and Gunn was so surprised that he loosened his grip just a little, just enough for Wesley to wrench his arm free. He jammed his helmet onto his head and swung onto the bike. "Don't follow me," he snapped, and then rode away with a roar.

"Freaking brilliant," Cordelia said from the doorway. Gunn ignored her as he stared at the corner where Wes had turned a moment before, disappearing from sight. "I'm sure you coulda been a little bit more caveman if you'd tried. Maybe."

"Shut up, Cordy," he growled. "He's going to do something tonight."

"Why, so am I," Cordelia said, sounding shocked. "Most people do things at night. Eat dinner. Take a shower. Maybe watch a little tv."

"Something dangerous," he said, and turned around in time to catch the worry that flitted across her face before settling down into well-worn grooves around her mouth and eyes. "He made some sort of promise to Doyle, to take care of something for him- Angel told me he overheard that much- and it doesn't take three guesses to figure out what."

"The curse," Cordelia said. "He's going to try to find away to make sure we never have to worry about it."

"That's right," Gunn said. "He took something from Angel's room, and then he takes off for his apartment and I'm pretty freakin' sure he's goin' somewhere after that. Somewhere dangerous."

"You think he's going to get hurt?" Cordelia said. "Because hey, bad thing. Why did he take off without us?"

"Because he knows we'd stop him," Gunn said. "Which is why I know he's not just gonna get himself hurt. My boy's gonna get himself killed."

Cordelia looked at him a little oddly and said, "_Your_ boy?" but he didn't hear her because he was already several feet away, heading for his truck. No way he was gonna let Wes get himself into this out of some misguided idea that he had to fix the fucking world.

"Where is he going?" Angel asked from behind her as Gunn drove off, turning the same place Wes had. Cordelia turned to face him with a sigh.

"He's following Wes, who is going somewhere bad and doing something potentially fatal to make sure your curse isn't an issue," she said, too worried about both men to cushion her words. And too surprised by Gunn's heartfelt, "My boy." Was it possible that the two lunkheads were finally getting it?

"He's doing _what?"_ Angel demanded. "He's not that stupid, is he?"

"He promised Doyle, apparently," Cordelia said. "He takes promises pretty seriously. And you know how far he'd go for a friend."

"Shit," Angel said succinctly, and vanished back into the Hyperion, yelling for Doyle.

Cordelia agreed with him. The whole mess was a Bad Thing. She was worried about Wes, and worried about Gunn because he was going after Wes, but still... There was a small spark of hope, too. It was starting to look like the two of them were going to stop butting heads at every opportunity and make with the kissing, at long last.

She just hoped that they were alive long enough to get the chance.

* * *

****

Wesley knew perfectly well that Gunn was going to follow him. He'd said not to, as if his words would make a difference to whatever decision the younger man made, but he knew better. Gunn was going to follow him, and it was inevitable.

Which was why he took a different route to his apartment.

This way was just a hair faster, especially with him on a bike and Gunn in that big clunking truck. He made it to his apartment, grabbed the book, took a moment to praise the Powers that he was habitually neat so that he was able to _find_ the book, and took off again.

Just in time, too, as it turned out, because Gunn was pulling up in front of his apartment building just as he was leaving. He'd taken the precaution of parking the bike in the alley at the back, with enough wards to be sure that it wouldn't stolen, and now he watched from the shadows and Gunn went in. Then he waited till he could see Gunn's shadow at his window- he'd given him a key months ago- and then he drove off, knowing that even though Gunn spotted him leaving, there was no way that Gunn could get down the steps to his truck anywhere near in time to catch up with him, or even figure out where he was going.

Neither would Gunn be able to guess. It was a bit stupid, he'd be the first to admit, but he'd made a promise, and honestly, sometimes it didn't seem like he all that much to lose by doing it, and everything to lose if the curse didn't hold. After all, the lawyers would probably just kill him. Angelus would torture him to death.

He pulled up in front of the building and studied it. It didn't look evil. It looked like the architect had no appreciation for classical architecture, but it didn't look evil. Just goes to show that appearances could be deceiving.

He parked the bike and walked up the steps. One hand was buried in the bag, holding the amulet in a white-knuckled grip, and the other held the book open in front of him. He read the incantation as he walked, trying to hold his hand steady and keep his voice strong and sure. This wasn't exactly a stable spell, but if it worked he should be able to-

He looked up from the book and smiled at Lilah Morgan's expression of shock. "Surprise," he said. "There's something I need you to do for me."

"And why would I do that?" she demanded lazily, her shock melting away and amusement setting in. No doubt she thought him helpless. Fairly close to the mark, especially in her own home territory, but not completely true.

A different page in the same book, and a shorter incantation, over before she had time to really call for guards. A wall of fire rose from the ground and encircled her, sealing all around her without scorching so much as a stray carpet fiber.

"I always wanted to try this spell," Wesley said, in a conversational tone. "Of course, it does require extreme concentration to sustain. I wouldn't want to fumble it and have you be burnt alive."

She wasn't stupid, and she realized perfectly well that there was no real way out of this. She was probably familiar with the spell- the book in his hands wasn't truly rare, just uncommon.

"What do you want to know?" she said resignedly.

"Angel's soul. Will it hold?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Honest. Know nothing."

"The reports are on your desk, Lilah," he said. "Don't tell me you haven't heard anything."

"Well, I do, but not enough. See, the thing is, you're asking the wrong person. I'm not the one who's felt Angel's insides recently."

"Then who do I ask?" he said. She said nothing and he said, "Oh dear, I'm starting to feel tired. Maybe this spell won't hold very well-"

"You should ask me," said a female voice from behind him. "Because I've known him for far, far longer than Lilah has."

He turned to stare at the open doorway, seeing Lindsey and a blonde woman. She didn't look familiar, but somehow, he knew exactly who she was.

"Darla."

* * *

****

Lindsey watched from the window and Wesley Wyndham-Pryce descended the front steps, his head down, clutching his bag with one hand. "That was unexpected," he remarked casually to the person behind him. "Didn't think he had the balls to just magic his way in here like that."

"He's different than you told me," Darla said from her seat in the chair. "What was it again? A tight-assed Brit? He was all grim determination and fire. I liked it."

Down at the curb, Wesley got on his bike and drove away. "He's not the way I remember him, either," Lindsey pointed out. "Things change, I guess. Angel and Doyle had to have caused a little upheaval around the place."

"Ah, yes," Darla hissed. "Angel is playing with his little Irish ghost still."

"You know he is," Lindsey said, letting the curtain fall closed. He turned to face her with an amused little smile on his face. "You know him better than anyone, isn't that what you told Wesley? Saw him from the inside out?"

She said nothing, so he continued, his voice low and amused, staring at the ceiling musingly. "Of course, I'd lay odds that Doyle knows him pretty damn well by now, especially since Wesley came storming in here about the state of Angel's soul. Sounds like your childe is working on a little perfect happiness with his 'little Irish ghost.'"

Darla glared at him for a long, silent moment, then lunged out of the chair. A moment later his back hit the wall with a painful thud, and Darla was plastered to his front, glaring at him like she wanted to burn him from the inside out.

"Don't talk," she ordered. "Just... don't talk."

Always happy to oblige, Lindsey bent his head and covered her lips with his.

* * *

****

Wesley stumbled into his apartment, feeling rather like something the cat dragged in. Christ, he was so exhausted, he could feel his bones creak. He wasn't inexperienced in magic- quite the contrary- but spells of that magnitude, done in such quick succession- that was new. And draining. He'd tapped into some of his own... life force, for lack of a better word, to sustain the ring of fire as long as he had in Lilah's office. All he wanted to do now was collapse into bed and sleep for about a week. Maybe two.

But first he had to call Doyle and tell him that everything was okay.

Twenty minutes later he managed to extricate himself from the yelling and accusations of being a "fucking stupid bastard," followed by a round of heartfelt thanks. Followed by the whole thing done all over again, by Angel, and then by Cordy. Even Lorne was there, and managed to get the phone long enough to give him a shorter version of the whole routine. Wesley suffered through it in relative silence, pathetically grateful that Gunn wasn't there to get his two cents in.

He hung up the phone and wandered into the kitchen, hoping for nothing more than a glass of water. The creak and click of his front door opening and closing should have startled him, but he'd been expecting it, and he knew exactly who it was.

"Gunn," he said, not turning around, knowing that the man was standing there because of the tingle-pain that shot up his spine. He said nothing else, just waited.

"Cordy called me and told me where you went. What you'd done."

"Darla was very informative," Wesley said, with no inflection in his voice at all. "Apparently the reason the Powers granted Doyle the chance to return was to stabilize him, to keep him from surrendering to despair. In other words, to make him happy. The curse won't be a concern."

"And I'm damn glad to know that I won't have to carry a cross in my pocket at work," Gunn said, "but more to the point- what the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?"

"Keeping a promise," Wesley said, and turned to face him at last. The tight expression on Wesley's face made his heart clench. "Doing what I had to do."

"Bullshit," Gunn said. "You coulda just gotten the Host to read him. Why this?"

"Lorne is very accurate and a wonderful source of information," Wesley said evenly. "But I didn't just need to know that he _would_ keep his soul. I need to know why. So that I could be sure."

"Good for you," Gunn snarled, losing his hold on his temper at last. "And what if you'd gotten killed, huh? Did you ever think about the rest of us when you wandered in and just dropped your neck on the choppin' block like that?"

"Why Charles," Wesley said, his voice dryer than dry. "I didn't know you cared."

And just like that, things were different. Tension snaked into the kitchen, and Gunn's face changed, his glare dropping away for something just as intent and with a lot more impact. "No, you don't, do you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Wesley knew he was being impossibly British and that it just pissed Gunn off, but he felt childish enough to do it anyway. Gunn just stared at him some more, instead of glaring again, like Wesley thought he would.

And he moved closer. Wesley hadn't noticed that, but someone he'd gotten halfway across the kitchen and was only a few feet away, staring at him with night-dark eyes. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Wesley demanded. "There's something I'm supposed to be getting? Hints usually help."

"Me," Gunn said simply. "Carin' about you."

"What?" Wesley was startled to the point of being completely shocked, feeling his breath freeze up in his throat. "There's nothing about that to get. You don't like me. End of story."

"See, that's where you wrong. I do care about you."

"Of course," Wesley said. "And that's what all the arguments and insults and screaming was about. How bloody much you _care_ about me."

"I do," he insisted. "I care about you."

"How?" Wesley demanded. "As a convenient target to let out frustration?"

"This is how," Gunn said, and kissed him.

* * *

****

"I'm going to kill him," Cordelia said for the hundredth time. "How could he do something that stupid without telling us?"

"Because he knew we'd stop him, maybe?" Doyle suggested. "He's pretty bright about stuff like that, Wes is."

"Not that it'd be hard to figure out," Cordelia muttered. "I mean, hello? Evil law firm? Want to do horrible things to the lot of us? And he just waltzes in there without any backup and uses a bunch of spells I _know_ he has no experience with and calls us and expects us not to-"

She stopped. Doyle wasn't paying a damn bit of attention to her. His gaze was fixed on the stairway, where Angel was climbing the steps, looking tired but happy. A little smile lurked on Doyle's lips, and he didn't even realize she'd stopped talking. She sighed.

Men.

"Go," she said, and he glanced at her, startled. "You know you wanna be going up there with him, not listening to me bitch about Wesley again. So go on, shoo. I can complain to someone else later."

Doyle shot her a wide grin, kissed her cheek, and then just phased out and through the ceiling. She sighed again and flopped back on the couch. She was cursed to be surrounded by men who fell for each other.

Then she felt the secret little smile that curled her lips, and she gave up and let the laughter bubble out of her. Hell, they fought evil. Happiness was in short supply. She didn't begrudge any of her friends a drop of it. They loved each other, and since she loved them all, she wanted them to be happy.

But next time Doyle ignored her in favor of staring at Angel's ass, she would put something horrible in his coffee. She had to have some standards, after all. Wouldn't want them to think she was getting soft.

She went back to work whistling.

* * *

****

Wesley was the one who broke the kiss first. It was with something like stunned amazement that he pulled away and leaned back against the counter, apparently for support, and stared at Gunn with wonder and fear in his eyes.

Gunn snorted to himself. "You should see your face, English. What, you think I'm gonna bite or somethin'? Not unless you ask real nice."

Wesley shook his head slowly. "No, it's just... Well. To say that I wasn't expecting this would be an understatement of-"

But Gunn was laughing at him again, not a mean laugh but full of gentle, affectionate mocking. "So damn English. You ever lose your cool?"

Wesley shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "That was me losing my cool. I was hoping to say something sophisticated, and I started babbling."

"It happens, man," Gunn said, and took a slow step closer. "But see, I'm thinking that you've already forgotten about what I said before. About me carin' about you. I'm thinking you need a reminder."

But the way Wes looked at him, so sad and tired and _please-don't-hurt-me-like-this,_ he couldn't do it. Couldn't hold up the flirting- yeah, he really did just think the word _flirting_ about Wes- sexual stalking thing, and so he just crossed the room in two long strides and pulled Wes into his arms with no warning at all.

Wes went rigid, tense, against him for one heart-stoppingly long moment before finally sighing and relaxing against him. "I believe you," he said slowly, "I just can't... _believe_ you, if that makes any sense at all. It's just... we've fought rather constantly for a long time now, and it's rather hard to believe that all of that isn't supposed to mean anything now."

"I'm not tryin' to erase all that's been said and done," Gunn told him. "That's pretty stupid, plus it would never work. But maybe we can work past it? I know I want to."

"I want to," Wesley said into his shoulder, then raised his head and smiled at Gunn. "I definitely want to."

"Well then," Gunn said, and taking him by the hand, started to draw him towards the couch. "Whaddaya say we start working past it right now?"

* * *

****

Angel heard the sound of Doyle's footsteps on the floor as the ghost followed him from the hall into his bedroom, and he rejoiced from hearing it. From being able to hear it. From knowing that some day in a distant future, he'd still be hearing Doyle's footsteps on the floor.

"You catch any of what Wesley was telling us, or were we all too busy yellin' at him to make sense of what he said past 'curse not a problem?'"

Angel turned around and smiled ruefully. "I caught some of it. Something about you being sent back just to keep me happy and not doing evil things. Or something."

"Good enough," Doyle said, and fitted himself against Angel's side as if he'd always been there as Angel pulled blood out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. "I mean, it's a full-time job, but I'm pretty sure I'm up to it."

"What, keeping me happy?" Angel spun them both around so that he was leaning back against the counter with Doyle standing between his thighs. "Oh, I'm sure you're up to it." He rubbed his hips against Doyle's to prove his point.

Doyle laughed, then sobered, and put his hand up to Angel's cheek. "I love you, you know that? I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to tell you enough, and I'm positive that there'll be times where I'm gonna beat you over the head with something to make my point instead, but here, right now, with you... I love you. I just wanted to say it. I love you."

"I love you too," Angel said. The microwave dinged before he could say more, and he laughed and reached around behind him to get his blood. He set it on the counter beside him without opening it, bringing up both hands to cup Doyle's face instead. "I know that I'm not worthy to live, much less to have been given you, but I don't care. I love you. I'm gonna hold on as hard as I can, as long as I can, for the rest of my very long life."

"From your lips to God's ears," Doyle said. "Cuz I'm sure as hell not gonna lose this."

"Stay with me," Angel said. "Stay with me forever."

"You're never gonna get rid of me," Doyle vowed. "Not even when you want to."

"That's never gonna happen," Angel growled. "I'll never be tired of you. I'll always want you by my side."

"And I'm always gonna be there," Doyle said. "So that works out."

Angel laughed, then leaned forward and gently bumped his forehead against Doyle's. "We're a pair, aren't we? You're a half-demon and sometimes-corporeal ghost, and I'm a two-hundred-and-some vampire with a soul who's destined to save the world. Is it any damn wonder we managed to find each other?"

"Hell no," Doyle said. "This is fate. This is meant to be."

"This is meant to be forever," Angel corrected. "You and me. We're forever."

Doyle smiled, and kissed Angel lightly, then pulled back enough to rest his head against the curve of Angel's neck. "Are we done with the loving vows thing now? Because I'm hungry."

"We are absolutely done," Angel said. "You want eggs, or, well, eggs? I'm not much good at anything else."

"I think eggs sound perfect," Doyle said solemnly, and they laughed as Angel went to dig the eggs out of the back of his refrigerator.

Downstairs, Cordelia smiled as she listened to them. Wes and Gunn were happy. Angel and Doyle were happy. And now it was time for her to find a little of her own happiness.

She whistled as she left the hotel, making sure to actually lock the door behind her, since no one else ever remembered. She considered the distance she had to go, and decided to take Angel's car. He'd never notice, as busy as he was gonna be tonight.

Besides, Lorne always did love Angel's car.

**End**

* * *

End Notes:

Because this is definitely the end. Do not ask me to update, because that's all there is. There ain't no more!

I originally meant for this story to be much longer- I had it all planned out, and there was this long story arc with Darla, and then Pylea, and I was gonna cross it over with the then-half-finished Entropy, but I gave up. I have so many stories in my head that it's hard for me to stay with one for a long time, though I'm getting much better at it. So, I wrote this chapter instead, to wrap everything up instead of getting it that much more complicated. I'm sorry to everyone who loved this story and would have liked to see more of it, but this was the best I could do.

I wrote the explanation for why Doyle came back at the end of the story, after I'd seen season 4. If everything was planned so that Jasmine could come to Earth, then why didn't the Powers see that and stop it, one way or another? So Doyle enters the picture, keeping Angel happy and Darla away from him, and that way there's never any Connor, and thus no Jasmine. And that is my explanation for why Doyle came back.


End file.
